All Violent Reforms
by lastknownwriter
Summary: In the distant past, an uneasy alliance opened the gates of heaven and hell allowing Angels and Demons to cohabit the mortal world. Amid murmurings of a demon uprising, former war leaders Castiel and Gabriel are ordered to find mates and begin the assimilation process, or be banished from the earthly realm forever.
1. Prologue

"You will take a mate or you will return home, Castiel. It is long past time." Uriel's voice boomed with authority, the sound echoing across dark den and into the mansion's marble foyer.

Castiel stared at the head of the archangel council, face devoid of emotion while his gut churned in fury. _He wasn't done yet._ He sipped from the snifter he held loose in his hand. _God, he hated the taste of liquor._ "How long."

"We will allow thirty days to procure a spouse and begin the assimilation process, or you will be required to permanently vacate your post on Earth."

_Heaven_.

Cas felt a vein jump in his jaw and relaxed his clenched teeth. He had not been home in some time, but he suspected he knew what would await him should he be forcibly banished. At best, he would be cast into the middle realm to guard the entrance to heaven from restless spirits; at worst...

It would be a demotion, one he would be lucky to ever escape.

And all of his work here on Earth would be for naught.

"I won't need thirty days," he said, and met Uriel's cold smile with one of his own.


	2. Hunger

_{{ I had been hungry all the years;_

_My noon had come, to dine;_

_I, trembling, drew the table near,_

_And touched the curious wine. }}_

Dean was going to get shit-faced drunk.

He was going to get so drunk that he could no longer remember the hours spent in vain fixing the engine in some piece of shit eurotrash car.

He was going to get so drunk that he could no longer hear the leggy blonde demon's whore screaming obscenities about his incompetence into her tiny, pristine phone before peeling out of the parking lot in a cloud of dust.

Without paying.

He wanted to be so hammered that he couldn't see the frustration etched in Bobby's face, or the line of cars still backed up for service at the garage.

An entire day's work. Wasted.

Worse had been Bobby's bleak expression when he finally pushed Dean out the door after dark.

"I can't pay you for today, son," he had said, regret tingeing the words and feeding the guilt gnawing in Dean's belly. "You're going to have to learn to shut your trap and do the job. They're not going anywhere. And you still gotta eat."

Bobby's words had stung then, and they stung now.

Dean was two months late on his rent and he had twenty-five bucks to his name; might as well make the most of it.

…

"Jo! Hit me again." Dean slammed the shot glass down and wiped the lingering wetness from his mouth with his palm. He ignored the wedges of lime in the neat white bowl on the polished bartop; the smooth bite of tequila had numbed his tongue at least half an hour ago. His vision was starting to blur nicely around the edges when he squinted at the clock over the register. One a.m.

He started when Ellen appeared instead of her sassy blonde daughter, a capped bottle of Cuervo Gold in her hand. "You've had enough, Deano."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I've got seven singles left, Ellen. Hit me again."

Ellen gathered up his empties and turned away. "Then go buy something to eat, hotshot. Soak up some of that misery before it pickles your liver."

He scowled as she sauntered to the opposite end of the bar. He watched her converse with Jo, their heads tucked close, whispering. Jo glanced his way once, her face tight with sympathy, and his gut clenched hard.

He staggered off the stool, bile climbing, stomach rolling. He ignored the angry barks of the patrons as he lurched through the still-crowded bar, bursting into the cool night air of the alleyway seconds before he was doubled over, retching. He vomited up the contents of his stomach, and then vomited some more, until his eyes watered and his teeth hurt, and he hit the pavement, breaking his fall with his hands.

A thin shard of glass sliced through his palm, burying itself deep in the calloused skin, but even that wasn't enough to keep him conscious.

His last thought was that despite everything, his old man had been right: he had turned into a Winchester anyway.

…

"Easy there, handsome. I've got you."

Dean fought against a wave of nausea, the world spinning as someone pulled him to his feet. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the blurred stranger above him.

He doubled his fist and swung.

The man deflected the sloppy punch easily, chuckling. "Enough of that. I'm trying to help you, you big oaf."

Dean yanked his fist free and staggered backward, hitting the brick wall of the Roadhouse. Sharp pain shot through his skull, grounding him as he finally focused on the stranger. "Who are you?" He was almost proud of the gruff steadiness of his voice.

The man was on the shorter side of normal, with longish light brown hair, and even in the dim light of the alley, his eyes held a mischievous glint. He was grinning at Dean like he was the most amusing thing he'd seen in days.

He was also an angel.

The bile pitched in Dean's stomach again and he swallowed it down, refusing to give this sonofabitch the satisfaction. "I asked you a question."

The angel cocked his head. "So you know, then." He clapped his hands together. "Good, that makes this a hell of a lot easier."

He took a step forward and Dean clenched his fists, ready to swing, knowing it would be fruitless.

The angel paused, laughing softly. "Dude. I'm not gonna hurt you, or try your skin on for size, pretty though it may be." He winked. "You're not my type."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Then what do you want?" He forced himself to relax against the bricks, mentally planning an escape route. He would never make it out of the alley, if it came to that, but he would go down fighting.

"I have a proposition for you."

Dean snorted in derision. "Yeah, I've been propositioned by your kind before." He yanked up a sleeve to reveal the ugly scar blemishing the underside of his forearm. The numbers were barely visible, but they were still there, under the skin. Marking him.

The angel's eyes widened and he whistled. "I'm impressed." He studied Dean thoughtfully. "How'd you escape?"

"What do you want from me?" Dean repeated.

The angel thrust out a hand. "Gabriel."

Dean stared at the hand, unmoving.

"Come on, handsome. It's not a trick, and I'm not like the rest of them." The angel nodded in the direction of Dean's arm.

Dean felt the quiet hum of latent power, the way he always did when an angel was near, but he reached forward and clasped Gabriel's hand anyway. Fuck it. Maybe his dad was right, and his destiny was to serve as an angel's bitch regardless. At least this one seemed more harmless than most. "Dean Winchester."

The instant their palms touched, the hair stood up on Dean's arm. He met Gabriel's eyes but the angel didn't react.

Dean dropped his hand and resisted the urge to scrape the skin clean against the denim of his thigh. "Now we've met. Can I go?" He winced as soon as the words escaped; he no longer had to ask permission. He was a free man, he could come and go as he pleased. He owed no one an explanation for anything, least of all an angel. His head hurt and his palm was stinging from the shallow cut.

He wanted to go home.

"How about some breakfast?" Gabriel asked, turning and sidestepping a murky puddle of brackish water. "There's a diner just down the street. Beats lying around in your own puke, am I right?"

Dean flushed as he watched the angel casually stroll out of the alley, disappearing around the corner of the building. He had almost no money, and no food prospects at home. He hated himself for it a little, but the gnawing in his gut quickly overrode any common sense. If this asshole wanted to feed him, however sketchy his motives, Dean was hungry enough to let him.

He followed.

…


	3. Mistakes

_{{God sent us here to make mistakes,  
To strive, to fail, to re-begin,  
To taste the tempting fruit of sin}}_

…

"So what do you say?"

Dean stared up at the ceiling in the strange bedroom, the angel's words echoing in his ears; it had sounded a lot more innocuous in the dead of night.

That could have been the eggs and bacon talking.

When he scrubbed the vestiges of sleep from his eyes, the early morning sun bounced off the ring on his finger. His stomach clenched as he studied it. _Fuck. _ He ripped it from his hand, burying it tightly in his fist. _Fuckfuckfuck._

Panic engulfed him as memories flooded back: the oddly hued flame of the candles, a crappy cell phone photo of a blue-eyed stranger, unfamiliar words in Enochian falling from his tongue as though he had been born to say them.

He threw off the smooth, white sheet, exhaling slowly through his nose as he straightened, waiting for the room to right itself before he bent and grabbed his discarded t-shirt from the floor. He willed himself to glance back at the bed, but the left side was undisturbed, and he was still mostly clothed.

So Dean Winchester had gotten married and still managed to fuck up his own wedding night.

It would have been farcical, if it were anyone else.

He hesitated in the strange hallway outside the bedroom, listening. The house seemed eerily quiet and instinctively he knew he was alone.

"Thank God for small favors," he muttered, going back into the bedroom and slamming the simple gold ring down on the nearest flat surface. "Thanks, but no thanks, angel man." He winced at a twinge of pain along the crease of his wrist; a fine red wound indicated where a sharp blade had swiped across the skin to draw blood for the ceremony_._

He shuddered. _Humans_ didn't exchange blood oaths to marry. And actually, he had never heard of angels who did either. He straightened his shoulders, resolute. He had probably just voluntarily given his soul to the worst kind of evil, the kind that time itself couldn't touch, but the best thing to do, for now, was ignore it. Bobby would know what to do; he knew all of the angel and demon lore, had an entire basement library devoted to it.

He would _kill_ Dean first, but then he would get him _un_married.

He had to.

Dean made it all the way to the front door before he slowed, steps lingering on the soft carpet. The ring had been heavy on his finger, warm and good. He thought about it, how empty his hand felt now, how even drunk and groggy in the wee hours of the morning, the second it had slid over his knuckle he had never wanted to take it off, had vowed as much to Gabriel, who had laughed and told him he was the best thing that had ever happened to his family.

The words had been warm and good too. They had enveloped him and lulled him to sleep in the wide, clean bed, the first _decent _sleep he had had in months.

Dean steeled himself and opened the door, determined to override whatever spell the angel had surely cast. A gust of morning breeze blew a folded scrap of paper from the entry table and it fluttered to a stop at Dean's boot; his name was scrawled across the page in black ink.

He ignored it.

He left the house and crossed the long porch. The more steps from the ring he took, the stranger the feeling in his gut, calling to him, searing him somewhere deep inside. Cursing, he turned back and flung open the front door, striding quickly through the house to retrieve the small circle of gold.

Stubbornly, he ignored the insistent burn in his hand and slipped off the chain he wore to add the ring to it.

When he tucked it into the neckline of his t-shirt, his blood rushed up to meet it, pulsing where the ring nestled against his chest. He resisted the urge to touch it, to press it into his skin and spread that warmth elsewhere, everywhere.

Somewhere from the depths of the house, a clock chimed the quarter hour and he left the house at a jog. He would have to run to catch the next bus; he was already late and Bobby needed him.

…

Dean stared into the empty refrigerator, thinking about those damn eggs, far too many hours ago. His wrist was still sore, throbbing right along with his pride after the chewing out he'd taken from Bobby this morning. The old man had kicked his ass out of the shop at five o'clock sharp and told him to go home, sober up, and stay the fuck away from angels until he could figure out how to fix this _godforsaken mess._

He opened the freezer and grabbed another piece of ice. He was still crunching it when the phone rang.

"Yeah."

"Dean Winchester?"

"Sometimes." Dean leaned on the counter, feet crossed at the ankles, wondering if Sam would mind feeding him one more night.

"This is Amanda, from Elegant Escorts. We have had a request for your services tonight. I apologize for the late notice."

Dean closed his eyes, throat tight. He really had come full circle if he was legitimately thinking about starting this up again.

"Mr. Winchester? Are you available? I'm afraid it will be a rather quick turnaround, I can have a tuxedo delivered within the hour. A car can be sent round to pick you up at seven."

He could hear the woman breathing as he tried to form the words _No, I'm not available. I don't do that anymore._ "Yeah. I'll be ready."

"Excellent. Ms. Talbot will be so pleased. She insisted we speak to you before any of our other clients."

The phone clicked before he could respond.

Bela.

Escorting had been the single most degrading thing he'd ever done for money, little more than paid arm candy, one step above whoring himself out, and once he'd gotten out of it he'd sworn he would never go back. It had been escorting that had gotten him caught in the trap in the first place all those years ago, but fuck it. He was hungry and there had been a bright yellow eviction notice on his door when he got home tonight.

Bela was sexy and beautiful and smelled like money. And she had always wanted Dean. Back then, she had offered him a life of luxury as her paid pet, but Dean could never go there. She would always carry the stench of the demons she worked with, and he would, frankly, rather starve.

When the service delivered the tuxedo thirty minutes later, he had already showered and shaved, splashing on the expensive cologne she had once given him, wondering if the addition would garner him a bigger tip.

He climbed into the limousine when it arrived, and held her arm as she paraded him around the foyer of the museum, and remembered to smile when he was supposed to.

And told himself the cold, hard knot in his midsection was only hunger.

…

Castiel frowned at Gabe's text message as he straightened his bow tie and smoothed an errant hair into place.

**_Gabe: _**_Sorry bro, lost your husband. But I'll find him!_

A messenger had delivered a thick, cream envelope containing a smooth gold ring and a snapshot of an oil-smudged mechanic leaning casually against the bumper of a car, hood up exposing the engine to the late afternoon sun. The man had been caught unaware, drinking a beer with another mechanic. His teeth were white and even against his tan skin, and his face was inhumanly pretty, the bone structure startling in its symmetry.

_Dean_ was printed in neat block letters on the back of the photo_._

He had been irritated, at first, because Gabe had obviously chosen the person he thought would get the biggest rise out of Cas. His brother could never do things the simple, most obvious way. He would always push the limits, the boundaries of every situation.

At least it was over and Cas could stop worrying, at least about himself. Gabe had yet to marry and their clock was still running on borrowed time.

One week left.

"Mr. Castiel? Your car is here." Lena, his housekeeper curtsied and ducked quickly out of the room.

Cas sighed. The staff had never acclimated to him, and he was at a loss as to how to change that.

His kind had left their mark on humanity, and for all their faults and shortcomings, there was nothing wrong with the longevity of human memory.

He smoothed a hand over his hair once more before following the housekeeper down the elegant, curved staircase and across the foyer. There were obligations his position required that he found distasteful, and this, schmoozing with other powerful entities in a blatant show of peacocking was one of them. There would be humans, but they would be few, and even those who were allowed inside the inner circle of powerful angels and demons were suspect in their motives.

Gabriel was typically the public face of their partnership, but with the council's edict hanging over their heads, it was imperative he not draw attention to himself until he could find himself a suitable partner.

Which was how Castiel found himself at a museum gala filled with the wealthy and the despicable.

He was halfway across the museum foyer before he realized he had no idea what his escort's name was. He smiled down at her intending to ask, a pretty redhead in her early twenties, but her expression was so completely vacant he realized it honestly didn't matter. She would get paid the same either way, and he wouldn't be requiring her after hours services anyway.

He mingled, sipping the truly heinous substance called champagne that humans seemed to favor at these events, pointedly ignoring the demons in the room. He lingered occasionally, trying to catch snippets of conversation lest he learn something new.

He was eavesdropping on Fergus Crowley when all of his senses snapped to high alert.

He was here.

Gabe must be getting better at Enochian, because the ring was practically buzzing on Cas' finger, and he wondered absently why he had even put it on. It had certainly been a risk, to show up in a room full of both his enemies and his superiors _with _a ring but _without_ his mate.

It now seemed especially foolish, and dangerous, since apparently that mate was hereand unprotected.

Cas pulled the girl around the perimeter of the room, searching the faces in the crowd, thinking of the eyes in shadow in the grainy photo on his dresser, wondering what color they were.

…

Dean felt him before he saw him, as odd as that sounded.

The ring had been a warm reminder all day, tucked in close against his skin, but now its temperature jumped significantly and a steady hum filled Dean's senses. He panicked, looking for an escape, fidgeting until Bela gave him a sharp look. He started to tell her he wasn't feeling well, that he needed to leave, when a tuxedo-clad body stopped in front of him, blocking his exit.

Dean glanced immediately at the man's hand, but he didn't really need to; he knew. There was a recognition buried deep within his cells, maybe pumping along his veins from the blood they had apparently shared the night before. It was unsettling and Dean felt lightheaded.

Although that could be because he'd barely eaten in two days.

The man's eyes were sharply blue and Dean felt a physical punch of awareness when his gaze tracked Dean's tongue as he wet his lips to speak. "Castiel," he said, and he didn't know where the name came from; it was waiting on his tongue.

The man's eyes flared so quickly Dean might have missed it if he hadn't been this close, if he hadn't been staring into them wondering if he recognized Dean _too_, if he had the same _thump thump_ing in his pulse, beating a frantic tune against his throat. "Dean."

His voice was startling in its intensity, the deep baritone like ground glass. It sent a shiver down Dean's spine. He stepped forward.

"And how do you two know each other?"

Dean had forgotten all about Bela, and he froze, mind blanking.

"Dean is my husband," Castiel said smoothly. "Thank you for entertaining him while I was away this evening, Ms Talbot. But I'll be taking over from here. I'm afraid I fail at surprises, but …" He cocked his head and Dean was instantly reminded of the other angel, Gabriel. "Surprise?"

Bela's grip on his arm tightened, her sharp nails biting into his bicep through the fabric of his jacket, but Castiel laid a calm hand to Dean's waist, pulling him away from her and turning him toward the door.

Even Bela wouldn't dare go against an angel's command, and Castiel's _stand down_, was inaudible but overt.

"Walk straight to the corridor and then wait for me," he growled in Dean's ear.

Dean's spine stiffened; he hadn't gotten paid yet. He wouldn't _get_ paid if he didn't stay, but the firm hand at the base of his spine grazed the top of his buttocks and he wavered, all senses in fight or flight mode, the ring warm against his breastbone, the pounding of his heart a weird panic when Castiel moved away. People were staring now, staring at him, staring at Bela behind him, staring at the handsome dark haired stranger who led a model-thin girl toward a cluster of guests.

The anxiety clawed at his throat. He had to get out before he hyperventilated.

He didn't wait in the hall but strode through the foyer and out into the cool night air, gulping in heaps to fill his lungs, hoping his heart would stop pounding in his ears so he could think.

He was lightheaded again so he began to walk down the street, pockets empty, stomach twisting, gnarling in hunger, the rush of adrenaline from coming so close to the angel, _his_ angel, dissipating and crashing him back to earth. He stumbled over a rock and fell to one knee, the pavement biting into his skin. He grimaced and clambered to his feet, frantically rubbing the slick fabric of his pants, praying there were no rips or holes.

"Dean." The voice was tinged with _authority_, yet not raised enough to draw attention from passersby; Dean heard it nonetheless.

He kept walking.

"Dean, wait." This time the voice had softened, although Dean wouldn't call it gentle. "Please."

It was the _please_ that made him stop.

When Castiel stood beside him he reached up and Dean flinched; not because he thought the man was going to strike him, but because he physically didn't think his body would withstand the contact. The angel was radiating power, the air sharper, electric with it, as though even the molecules were afraid and were moving out of his way.

"I apologize for forcing you to leave in such a hurry, but I," Castiel hesitated and looked away.

Dean blinked. If he didn't know better, he would say the angel's expression bore a surprising glimpse of humanity.

Cas seemed to study a nearby streetlamp. In response, the lamp snuffed out. The corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. "I didn't want our first meeting to be in a room filled with assholes."

Dean snorted in surprise.

Cas met his eyes then, and the preternatural blue had calmed to the soothing color of an August sky. "Would you like to have a cup of coffee?" He nodded toward a corner shop, it's neon sign beckoning passersby with promises of caffeine and home baked goods.

Dean felt himself nodding without knowing why.

If he kept agreeing to this man's orders without thought, this might be a real problem. But he followed anyway; the coffee would quell his hunger, and the ice water would be free.

And he selfishly wanted to see this man, the angel Castiel, in full light.

…


	4. Beginnings

_{{Flee into some forgotten night and be  
Of all dark long my moon-bright company:  
Beyond the rumour even of Paradise come,  
There, out of all remembrance, make our home.}}_

_Do not fidget,_ Dean thought, desperately looking anywhere but at the man seated across from him in the booth, the faded red leather accentuating the appealing cut of his tuxedo.

"What can I get you fellas?" The waitress snapped her gum and smiled, rolling a pencil between her thumb and forefinger.

"Just ice water for me," Dean said.

"Two open-face roast beef sandwiches, extra gravy, extra toast." Cas studiously avoided Dean's sharp glance. "Do you have any pie?"

"Cherry, blueberry and apple."

"Apple, a'la mode. And a glass of milk. Coffee for me."

Dean frowned as the girl sashayed behind the counter, calling up their order to the cook in classic diner shorthand. "Water was fine."

"You're hungry." Cas shrugged. "So am I." He paused, concerned. "You're not a vegetarian…"

Dean shook his head curtly. "I'm not hungry." The words trailed off when the angel's face remained unmoved. "I didn't have time for dinner before the gala," he lied.

"You haven't eaten all day." Cas' frown deepened. "And had very little yesterday."

Dean's face flamed, those piercing eyes glancing off his skin, reading far deeper than he was ready for, than he was willing to give. He blanked his thoughts, imagined a screen slamming down.

Cas blinked, surprised. "How did you do that?"

Dean's stomach growled noisily and his lips thinned in irritation. "With practice."

The waitress slid a steaming cup of coffee, black, in front of Castiel and glasses of milk and ice water in front of Dean. "Food'll be out in a jiffy!" she chirped, oblivious to the tension between her only patrons.

Dean waited for a reprimand, but it never came. Cas leaned across the booth and dragged the bowl of sugar close, opening six packets and dumping them all into his cup in a stream of snowy white. He stirred the dark liquid before taking a sip. Dean watched as his nose crinkled in distaste. "Don't hold back on my account," he offered with a tiny flourish.

If he didn't know any better he might classify the look on Cas' face as chagrined when the angel emptied four more packets into his mug.

"I dislike many…tastes." The admission was hesitant.

Dean pondered that for a beat before caving and picking up the frosty glass of milk and taking a long drink. He never bought milk; he could never afford it. It tasted like heaven. He rubbed his upper lip self consciously when he caught Castiel's half-hidden smile. "Thanks, for, uh," he wriggled, then mentally chided himself. "For dinner."

"You're welcome."

There was that rich baritone again, rolling through him and settling somewhere in the depths of his core. And dammit, Dean wanted to hear it again; he wanted to hear his _name_.

He drank all of the milk.

Castiel continued to sip his coffee.

At first, Dean avoided looking directly across the booth, cataloguing the planes of a square jaw and the neat curl of dark hair in quick stolen glances, but gradually he relaxed when he realized Castiel was completely unaware. The angel stared intently out of the window, at the increasing foot traffic on the sidewalk as the night came to life and the diner began to fill. So Dean dropped all pretense and openly studied him. He had a tiny crescent shaped scar below his left eye, the half-moon shape the only blemish on his near perfect skin. He watched the oddly-hued eyes flicker when a little girl in a white fur coat skipped past with her parents, and then shutter as a man sauntered by swinging a cane.

Dean recognized the man as a demon, a cloying, oily feeling permeating the air in his wake, and he suppressed a shudder, glad a window and a wall served as a buffer. He supposed he was lucky his discomfit had gone unnoticed by his dining partner, who was apparently as good as his word and no longer reading him.

If he breathed too deeply, he could smell him, and it did crazy things to Dean's tortured stomach.

"Here you are, then. Enjoy!" The waitress carefully placed the generous servings in front of them, adding extra napkins and refilling Dean's milk glass from a clear pitcher. "I'll bring that pie out when you hit plate," she winked at Dean.

"Thank you," he said gruffly, waiting for Castiel to pick up his roll of silverware.

Cas unwrapped his fork and knife, pausing before spreading the cloth napkin across his lap. "Is everything all right?" Dean hadn't moved since the waitress left. "I can order you a soda, or a different dish."

"What? No, it's fine. Everything's fine." Dean hurriedly unwrapped his silverware. _Damn angel._ He tucked the shade tightly around his thoughts.

Cas smiled, clearly aware of Dean's attempts. "I'll keep my distance, you don't have to keep me out if it's tiring."

"It's not." But it was, and Dean relaxed as the first forkful of buttery mashed potatoes hit his taste buds. "Oh my_ God,_" he moaned, eyes drifting closed.

Cas' fork clattered to the table. He scrambled to catch it before it hit the floor, Dean's face transformed by a wide grin when he glanced over. "Eat," he said with what he hoped was a stern look, but Dean only laughed and the sound sent tiny frissons of pleasure down his spine.

Maybe he _could_ do this after all.

They ate in silence, lulled by the background noise of the other diners and the delicate taps of silverware on china. The waitress delivered the pie as promised, sliding it between the two of them, along with two fresh forks, then removing their dinner plates.

Dean stared at the pie, rich apple filling falling from beneath a flaky golden crust, flecks of cinnamon and sugar crystallized on top. A scoop of vanilla ice cream sat to one side and Castiel dipped the tines of his fork in it, delicately licking the creaminess from the utensil. Dean swallowed, his hunger long sated, but a strange longing lingering in the pit of his stomach; he was hit with the notion that it might never leave.

"You should drink the rest of your milk, too," Castiel murmured, swirling his fork into the ice cream for another nibble. "You're deficient in calcium."

"Stop that," Dean said in consternation, the tips of his ears burning. He scraped his palm across his mouth, wishing for the first time since they had sat down that he was at home, or at Sam's; anywhere but here.

Castiel stiffened. "I'm sorry, I—"

He looked so sincerely apologetic that Dean was filled with the oddest urge to touch him.

"It's okay." Dean forced himself to pick up his fork, cutting a bite of pie, scooping up a small bit of ice cream with it. Castiel continued to look troubled, so after he had swallowed (_and holy Jesus, it was good pie)_ he offered, "I don't usually have milk." He carefully avoided mentioning it was because it was too expensive.

Castiel took another bite of ice cream, steering clear of the pastry or fruit. "I didn't read you again. That was from earlier, on the sidewalk."

Dean blinked, lowering his fork. "So you, what? Did a medical scan on me to make sure I was healthy before you brought me home?" he asked, voice thick with sarcasm.

"Yes."

Another tiny scrape of ice cream.

Dean stared, but apparently scanning potential mates for illness and disease was de rigueur for angels. His anger dissipated as quickly as it had flared. He sliced off a bigger bite of pie and then turned the plate so the ice cream side faced Castiel. "Why didn't you just get your own bowl of vanilla, Cas?"

Cas paused, the fork still sucked between his full lips, as though he were seriously contemplating the question. It was a long beat before he caught on that Dean was teasing. "I _do_ like ice cream."

Dean would have sworn the angel's cheeks were rosy. "It's okay," he shrugged. "We can share. I'd rather have the pie anyway."

When the meal was over, the first whiff of awkwardness settled over the table.

Dean's eyes were drawn to the ring on Cas' hand, and he wondered if the angel could feel the one tucked in tight against his breastbone. "So what now?" he finally asked, while they waited for the check.

Cas creased the paper doily that had been placed beneath his coffee cup. "I had a room prepared for you in my home." He studied Dean carefully, watching for any sign of distress; on the sidewalk, the man's thoughts had been a jumble of fear and self-loathing and a deep-seated fury that seemed wholly misplaced for the circumstances. Underneath it had lain a hunger so strong, the vestiges of it still echoed in Cas' mind. He was reluctant to let Dean out of his sight, but knew saying so aloud would likely have the opposite effect. "Would you like to see it?"

"Do I have a choice?" Dean asked, wondering if he would care all that much if the answer was no. He was so tired.

"It was your choice to be here, as it was your choice to take the vow," Cas bluffed, wondering if Dean had any idea how tightly their lives were now entangled, if Gabriel had had told him even a fraction of what to expect.

It was the first either of them had mentioned the ceremony, but Dean chose to ignore it for now. Maybe he was a coward, but his lids were growing heavier by the minute and his brain was shutting down. "Sure. Whatever, Cas." He slid out of the booth, and pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket.

Cas' hand shot out to grab his forearm, and this, their first prolonged touch, was electric.

Dean froze, nerves jumping with the angel's sudden proximity.

"I'll get dinner," Cas said quietly, dropping Dean's arm.

"I was going to leave the tip," Dean replied, tucking his last seven dollars between the empty milk glass and the pie plate.

"Thank you," Cas nodded politely.

Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye as he paid the girl at the register, wondering briefly what the hell he was going to take for lunch tomorrow, although surely this dinner would be enough to tide him through at least another day.

A few quick taps on a cell phone resulted in a sleek black car pulling up to the curb outside the diner.

Dean whistled under his breath.

Cas winced. "It's obnoxious, I know. I usually drive myself." He opened the back door before the driver could emerge.

Dean felt a little foolish having the door held for him, but ducked into the back seat without a word. The interior was as impressive as the exterior, strips of shining chrome accentuating buttery leather in deep hues. When Cas slid in beside him, the back of the car was instantly filled.

They rode in silence through the city, until the businesses became sparser and the neighborhoods became grander. The car paused at an ornate iron gate and the driver lowered his window to enter a code, giving Dean his first glimpse at the reality of marrying a high-profile angel.

When they finally came to a standstill in front of a sprawling Mediterranean villa, he was leveled by a grim certainty that he could never, ever, be what this angel needed.

And he wondered how he had ever thought he could.


	5. Divergent

{{Whose woods these are I think I know.  
His house is in the village, though;  
He will not see me stopping here  
To watch his woods fill up with snow.}}

"You'll be able to sleep?" Cas hovered just beyond the bedroom door.

Dean was grateful for even this sparse distance; the constant pull of the angel's presence (something Dean needed to ponder later, when he was alone and not so exhausted), along with the continual need to shield his thoughts had worn his nerves to a thin veneer. One crack and he was going down. He licked his lips self-consciously, realizing the angel was still waiting. "Sure. I'll be fine."

Cas hesitated, his eyes shadowed in the dim hallway light, preventing Dean from reading their expression. "I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

"You don't sleep?" Dean winced inwardly; he was apparently so tired his damn mouth was firing without his brain's participation.

Cas laughed softly, catching him off guard.

The sound was sweet and Dean knew instinctively it would echo in his thoughts for a long time.

Cas placed a hand on the door, sliding his fingers across the smooth panels of wood until they rested on the brass handle. "No, I do, but I've been a little—" he stopped and tilted his head, searching for the right words. "Wound up? My rooms are connected to yours, though. Through there." He pointed to a door in the corner. "If you need anything. Later."

Dean nodded, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with _that_ tidbit of information.

And how the fuck would he ever sleep in this room, knowing the angel lay just beyond the wall.

The door _clicked_ when it closed and he let out a long breath. He rolled his shoulders to relieve some of the tension and turned in a little circle to survey the room.

It was huge; he could fit most of his _house_ in here. In addition to the requisite bed and nightstands, there was a sitting area, a desk, and across from the bed, the biggest flatscreen TV Dean had ever seen. Cas had pointed out the double doors of the walk-in closet and dressing area, and a second set of doors leading to a private bath.

The entire space was decorated in shades of charcoal accented with a splashes of green. Masculine, tasteful.

It was perfect.

He kicked off his boots and made use of the bathroom before washing his face in the deep porcelain sink. The towel was thick and fluffy and he breathed in its fresh, clean scent as he scrubbed his skin dry. It soothed him, reminding him inconceivably of his mother, and a pang of longing shot through his heart.

The sheets, when he turned down the bed, were a pearly grey so smooth against his bare legs that he buried his toes in them, relishing the feel against his skin.

His last thought as he buried his face in the plush pillow was of the pattern of faint lines at the corner of blue, blue eyes, and when he might see them crinkle in laughter again.

…

"So he's upstairs?" Gabe's mouth hung open.

Cas tried not to feel smug, but it was hard; he rarely got one over on his brother. "Yes." He shifted his gaze toward the ceiling, narrowing his eyes. "He's asleep," he said after a beat, more than a little satisfaction lacing his tone.

"Oh boy," Gabe murmured, shaking his head.

"What?" Cas bristled.

"Look, baby brother, I know he's a looker—"

"Gabriel." The warning was clear.

Gabe wasn't phased in the slightest. "You don't even _like_ men."

Cas stiffened. "I like everyone."

Gabe snorted. "Yeah okay, Nancy. You're most definitely the free lovin' sort. Don't let me keep you from your nightly orgy."

"It's not like that and you know it," Cas retorted, suddenly tired. "And Dean is different."

"Dean." Gabe studied his brother, thoughtful. "You know, there was something off about him, something buried down deep. I kept getting a whiff of it, even in the alley. I think he might have been blocking me."

"He was," Cas said with a small smile. "And he's good at it." He held a glass of 7-Up to the lamp and watched the bubbles sparkle in the light. "Whatever it is, it's hidden under layers of distrust and hardship."

Gabe bit his lip guiltily.

"What." Cas set the glass on the side table. His tone brooked no argument.

"I might have found him in an alley?" Gabe held up his hands. "Don't panic. I scanned him first, he was one hundred percent functional human. Pretty as the day is long and a mouthy little bastard too. Just drunk. I wasn't thinking about you, or even me, when I stopped to help him. But he," he shrugged. "I dunno. He took a swing at me and I suddenly had this vision of him going toe to toe against Uriel. It tickled the fuck out of me."

"Gabriel." Cas heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Nice of you to put me first," he added dryly.

"Yeah, okay," Gabe chuckled. "I might have thought it would be a hoot to hitch you to a wagon full of sarcasm and woe." He winked. "But hey, looker, am I right?"

"He's a means to an end," Cas said sharply. He grimaced when the harsh words bounced off the ceiling. "Whoever he is, he's mine."

Gabe's eyebrow quirked at the hint of possessiveness. "And you're down here in the living room with me instead of enjoying your newly wedded bliss because…"

"Because he needs rest. He's exhausted, malnourished. He's deficient in a dozen vitamins and minerals and he—" he stopped when he caught Gabe's grin.

"A means to an end, huh?"

"And you?" Cas swiftly changed the subject. "You have less than a week."

Gabe waved off his concern. "Plenty of time."

"Gabe—"

"_Cas._" Gabe winked. "Hey, last resort I can just take one of the Days, right? You won't be needin' 'em now anyway."

"Very funny," Cas said sternly. "I'm serious. I can't do this without you."

Gabe's expression sobered. "You won't have to. Not when we're this close. I'll find someone." When Cas' face remained skeptical he rolled his eyes. "I _will._"

…

Dean woke with a start, disoriented and panicking. He fought his way out of the tangle of sheets, heart pounding and gasping for breath.

The nightmare faded away, wisps of sight and sound that he gladly ignored until they disappeared altogether.

Almost.

He scrubbed his face with his hands before reaching for his cell phone on the nightstand. The battery was low, a single bar, because he hadn't had any way to charge it; not that he could use it anyway. He hadn't had the money to refill it in weeks. He had heard once that you could use even a practically dead unpaid cell phone to dial emergency services, and someone would answer, find you.

It wasn't much, but it was enough. He never went anywhere without the slip of black plastic.

_Six a.m._ the small green window blinked up at him. Early, but not so much that he couldn't go on into work. Once he figured out how to get there, that is. He had tried to pay attention last night as the car wound through the city, but it was dark and he had been tired; he had no idea how far he would need to walk to find a bus stop in this neighborhood.

Did gated compounds need bus service?

Dean climbed from the bed, stealthy and quiet, trying not to think about the angel sleeping just beyond the corner door. He snatched his jeans and t-shirt from the floor and quickly dressed.

He was feeling as close to normal as he had in a long time; he had eaten and slept, his thoughts were clear. The last thing he needed was to be confronted by the one person who seemed determined to set his world on fire, intentionally or not.

He exit from the expansive house went undetected; even the gardener watering the lawn ignored him. He had a momentary panic as he neared the iron gate, but it slid silently open on his approach. The back of his neck prickled, and he wondered if someone was watching him, but didn't turn to check.

It was several blocks before he reached a city bus route, and then he was forced to ride an extended loop until he found himself in a familiar area. By the time he made it home to change and hop another bus to Bobby's, he was almost late for work.

Inconceivably, his stomach growled the moment he pushed through the heavy steel door, and he sighed. It was going to be another long day.

…

"Dean! Bobby wants you in the office."

Ash slapped at his ass with an oily, twisted rag when he passed.

Dean inwardly braced himself, leaning against the doorjamb with a cocky grin. "You rang?"

"Sit." Bobby's face brooked no argument and Dean sighed heavily.

"Bobby, I got eight oil changes waiting."

Bobby jabbed a finger at the ancient rolling chair. "Plant your ass in that chair pronto, boy."

"Fine," Dean huffed, slumping in the chair, evoking shades of his adolescent self.

"Hand it over."

Dean bristled. "Hand what over?"

Bobby stared, impassive.

"I didn't want to lose it," Dean muttered, dragging the thin black cord over his head and dropping it in Bobby's outstretched hand. He was instantly on edge. His ears rang, a faint hum of tinnitus, when Bobby gingerly pinched the ring between his thumb and forefinger and held it up to the light to study it.

Bobby smoothed a finger over the inside of the band, glancing over when Dean twisted uncomfortably in his seat. "You felt that."

Dean stiffened. "No." He rolled his eyes when Bobby snorted. "I just have a shit load of work to do and this is a waste of time."

"Go stand out front. In the parking lot, and tell Ash to c'mere."

"What?" Dean's eyes widened. "Why?"

"Just do it," Bobby grumbled. His carefully schooled expression scared Dean a little; this would be so much easier if he would get mad and bark at him the way he used to when he was little.

"Fine." Dean shoved out of the chair and stalked from the office. "You're up next, Runt." He threw his thumb in the direction of the office and stomped through the oil-stains and dirt, kicking a stray bolt and muttering under his breath until he found himself standing in the gravel in the sunshine.

He turned his face to the sky and closed his eyes, let the heat sink into his skin, ignoring the burning need to go back for the circlet of gold.

"Go get me a hammer," Bobby said quietly.

"Hoo boy, I don't think that's a—"

"Get it." Bobby's face was black, and Ash quickly obeyed the command, shaking his head in resignation.

"Shut the door," Bobby muttered, slipping the ring from the cord and placing it square in the center of his desk. "Better stand back."

Ash plastered himself against the wall, screwing his eyes shut when Bobby raised the hammer high over his head.

In the parking lot, Dean's head jerked toward the garage when Bobby cried out in pain. He sprinted to the office and yanked open the door.

Bobby was cradling his wrist against his chest, cussing a blue streak. Ash's face was pale, but he was grinning and Dean began to relax.

His ring sat undisturbed atop the dirty desk calendar Bobby used to schedule appointments, its pretty sheen glowing under the dim fluorescents. "What happened?"

"Your ring kicked Bobby's ass!" Ash chortled, sobering when Bobby glared at him.

"Goddamn thing nearly broke my arm, that's what happened," Bobby complained, turning to look for the hammer and cursing anew when he saw the new hole in the window behind his desk.

Dean snatched the ring up when Bobby reached for it. "I think you've had enough," he quipped. He almost, _almost_, slipped it on his ring finger without thinking, remembering at the last second to grab the open cord lying on the corner of the desk.

"You realize this means you're fucked, right?" Bobby groused.

"I think I'll just be out here," Ash said, escaping through the open door.

"Chickenshit," Dean threw after him. He slumped back into the chair he had vacated earlier and pulled the cord over his head. He tucked the ring inside the neckline of his t-shirt, barely refraining from pressing it into his skin. "So now what?"

Bobby shook his wrist, flexing his fingers. "I have no idea. I need to do some more research." He studied Dean thoughtfully. "You look a damn sight better than you did yesterday. You sleep last night?"

Dean shifted uneasily. "Yeah, fine."

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "_Fuck_," he swore. He dragged the dirty ballcap from his head, raking his fingers through his sparse hair. "Am I too late?"

"What? No!" Dean sat up straight, deciding the truth was better than wherever Bobby's imagination had taken him. "He took me to dinner, that's all."

"You swear on your mother's life."

"Fuck you, Bobby," Dean said quietly, standing.

"Dean." Bobby's voice was anguished, tired, and Dean's heart clenched hard in his chest. "Don't forget who you are, who _they_ are."

"I won't." Dean's feet were heavy as he left the office. "How could I?"

…

Dean was grateful for the crammed appointment book, the afternoon passing in a blur of heat, oil, and old rubber. He was too busy to stop for lunch, too busy to even remember to be hungry.

Ash brought him an orange soda in an old fashioned glass bottle at four, insisting he stop for ten minutes and take a breath.

"Quick, Deano, before the old man catches us loafing. Tell me more about this spousal unit." Ash's eyebrows wagged. "On a scale of one to inferno, how hot is he?"

"Shut up, Ash," Dean muttered, swallowing his smile.

"Mm hmm, at least forest fire." Ash winked knowingly.

_At least,_ Dean thought to himself. For a moment, he basked in the congenial teasing and camaraderie that might otherwise accompany this occasion. If it was anyone else. If _he_ was anyone else.

At closing, he used the phone in Bobby's office to dial Sam, but the answering machine picked up.

"You forget he was flying out to California this week? Picked up that pro bono case." Bobby huffed as he shuffled the clutter on top of his desk. "Neither one of you boys got sense enough to do things the _smart way _so you got money left to eat on." He scowled at Dean. "You got somethin' for dinner at home?"

Dean hid his reaction to the news that Sam had forgotten to tell him he was going out of town. It wasn't the first time, and likely wouldn't be the last. Sam probably relished the occasional break from Dean's fucked up life. "I'll stop for some peanut butter and bread. Maybe some milk." He flushed as he shoved the twenty Bobby handed him into his back pocket. He wasn't yet ready to let down his guard enough to remember Cas' intense stare under the streetlamp, when he catalogued all of Dean's weaknesses, and tried to fix them anyway.

"You'll eat with me. Let's go." Bobby's expression was unbending, and Dean was too grateful to argue, needing the companionship more than the food.

His eyes burned when Bobby pushed a mug of milk toward him across the scarred oak table.

"I didn't know you liked milk," the old man said gruffly, before turning to dish up a bowl of macaroni and cheese. "It's two percent."

Dean shrugged nonchalantly. "It's fine, whatever."

"When you were little, you would only drink whole," Bobby reminisced as he cut up a hot dog and scooped the coin-shaped bits of meat on top of the pasta. "_With_ chocolate syrup."

Dean grinned at the presentation, feeling about six years old and bursting with affection for this man who had stepped up to be his father so many years ago. "You gettin' sappy on me, old man?"

"Shut up and eat, brat." Bobby thumped the table with his fist, but he was hiding a smile when Dean snuck a glance.

After dinner, Dean stayed to watch TV in the little living room, slouched across the rundown couch, letting the worries of the day drift away with the waning laugh track of predictable sitcoms.

When Bobby was snoring in his recliner, Dean let himself out and walked home in the dark.

The stark difference between his bedroom and the one he had left in the early hours of morning hit him as soon as he flipped the dirt-streaked light switch.

His bed was unmade, the mattress lumpy and uneven, the covers mismatched and worn.

In the bathroom, he almost forgot about the rotten place under the linoleum, his heel sliding into the indention before he quickly sidestepped it.

He was out of towels, a constant since his washer had died a quiet death a couple of weeks ago; there was no money for the Laundromat anyway. He pulled a stiffened towel from the shower rod, flecks of fake chrome drifting down like glitter. He had washed it in the tub the morning before and hung it up so that he would have one to dry off with. When he finished his shower, the towel was rough, coarse against his skin, and it smelled of stale water.

He fell into his bed and pulled the thin blankets over his legs, doubling his ancient pillow for more lift. Here, clean and exhausted, stripped bare, Dean was unable to ignore the aching hole in his chest and he clasped the ring tight in his fist.

Finally, he slept.


	6. Apologia

_{{Perchance it may be better so - at least  
I have not made my heart a heart of stone,  
Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,  
Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.}}_

"Ahh, Dean? I think maybe you got a visitor." Ash bent over the open hood of the Ford, peering through the engine to where Dean stood in the pit.

"Huh?" Dean swiped at the sweat beading on his forehead. He was close to a sum total of six people, and a quarter of those were standing in this garage. "Who is it?" He swore when Ash gave him an exaggerated wink. "_Goddammit_. I'll be right up."

Castiel was framed by the open back door, staring out across a junkyard strewn with rusting car bodies and pyramids of dismantled parts. Dean scrubbed at his hands self-consciously with a scrap of cotton, Cas' fitted dress pants and pale button down a chasm that separated them.

Dean cleared his throat and shoved the rag in his back pocket.

Cas tilted his head, but didn't turn around. "Where did they all come from?"

Dean hesitated, gauging the pull of the body in the doorway, wondering how strong it would become, if he could learn to withstand it. If he was already lost. "All over," he said finally, easing into the angel's space, eyes lingering over Cas' profile before he followed his gaze across the field. "Bobby buys some at auction, hauls some in off abandoned lots and farms."

"You didn't come home," Cas murmured, impossibly still.

Dean turned the words over in his head, something buried deep fighting to break free. "I had dinner at Bobby's and then went to bed." And hadn't slept for shit.

A breeze blew the sweet smell of fescue into the shop. It reminded Dean of summers raking hay, shoulders cooked brown in the hot July sunshine.

"Will you come home with me today?"

Dean bit his lip. He could feel Cas' eyes on him. He left his thoughts free and wondered if he would read them.

When Cas' mouth lifted in a smile, he knew that he had.

"Your calcium is better."

"Shut up," Dean muttered, but there was no venom behind the soft retort. He stuck his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. "I have to work until six," he offered tentatively, prolonging the push-pull of this dance, a simmer of frustration settling warm in his stomach.

Cas stepped into the strip of sun spilling across the threshold, lifting his face to the sky. "I can wait."

Dean exhaled slowly, relief running cool and welcome along the length of his limbs. He was startled to discover he _wanted_ to go with Cas.

"I'm going to have a look at that car over there," Cas pointed, meeting Dean's eyes for the first time. They were guileless, open. Beautiful. "You work."

His grin was contagious, and Dean felt the corners of his mouth respond in kind. He watched as Cas navigated the junk and the weeds to where an old muscle car rested, it's rusted black body half covered by a tarp. "Cas, wait."

"Dean!" Bobby bellowed from inside the shop.

Dean threw an impatient wave behind him and followed Cas into the brush. Wordlessly they peeled away the faded green canvas.

Cas studied the long planes of the body, bending over to peer inside a cracked window. "This is yours."

Dean shifted his weight, staring at the glare of sun on the hood until he had a handle on his unsteady emotions. As intrusive as it had been at first, he might learn to appreciate Cas' ability to read more than he could offer in words. "Yeah," he replied gruffly. "It belonged to my dad."

Cas ran a finger along the dust-covered dents in the door. "You should restore it."

Dean laughed darkly. "No time. No money. No room in the garage for a job this big." He shrugged. "Some day."

Cas straightened, wiping his hands on his pants before Dean could stop him.

"Don't do that," Dean admonished in exasperation, swiping at Cas' leg with the worn rag from his pocket.

Cas watched him, amused. "It's just dirt, Dean."

"You're all tidy and…perfect," Dean muttered, frustrated when the smudge refused to vanish entirely.

Cas caught his wrist, squeezing it lightly before dropping it with a smile. "Maybe I want to try messy and imperfect."

Dean knew he was blushing, hoped the heat of the sun had colored his freckled skin pink, slamming shut his thoughts again lest Cas see how the words affected him. A handsome stranger flirting with him shouldn't be so disconcerting, but then, he was also _married_ to this particular stranger. It was entirely too intimate and it wrecked his already shaky equilibrium. "I think we'd better get you back inside before you have a heat stroke."

Cas threw his head back and laughed, and the sound rolled through Dean, reverberating all the way to his toes.

When they stepped out of the bright day and into the garage, Dean was momentarily blinded. Consequently, the large form that rushed them caught him off guard. Cas was slammed into the concrete block wall beside the door, his head glancing off the chipped paint with a dull _thud._

Dean stumbled back, blinking quickly. The gleam of the blade held to Cas' throat was the first thing he saw when his vision cleared.

"What did you do to my brother?" Sam growled, pressing his forearm heavily against Cas' sternum.

"Sam!" Dean grabbed at Sam's elbow, huffing in frustration when his brother knocked him aside. "Sam, wait."

"Go in Bobby's office, Dean. Let me take care of this." Sam's eyes never left Cas' face, his lips thinned with determination.

Dean noted belatedly that Cas hadn't so much as lifted a hand to defend himself, staring dispassionately up at his captor, his oddly colored irises flickering in the low light. Dean could taste the power surge in the air, and knew Sam could too, although…Dean took a step back, dizzy. _This_ was different. This was…

"Wow, bro. I mean, I suspected loverboy was gonna be more complicated than you thought, but I never guessed he'd sic his bodyguard on you." Gabriel placed a steadying hand against Dean's back when he swayed on his feet. "Easy there, handsome. Don't fight it so hard."

"Fuck you," Dean wheezed, bending over at the waist, swallowing down the bile that churned in his stomach.

"Gabe." The deep authority of Cas' voice echoed in the enclosed space, and the sound rang in Dean's ears.

Or possibly that was his proximity to an archangel. He wondered bitterly what else Gabe had hidden from him that night in the alley.

Gabe patted his back soothingly. "It's okay boy-o, you're all right." He glanced over to where his brother was still pinned to the wall. "Can someone explain this though?" He gestured to Sam's solid stance; he remained completely unaffected.

Sam eased back, turning only because Dean had yet to straighten. "I'm immune to you, asshole." His warning glare to Cas before he released him was clear, as was the scowl he shot toward Gabe. He pulled Dean into the open door. "Take a breath."

Dean sagged against the doorjamb, anger at his body's failure suffusing him. "I'm fine." He jerked his arm free, running a hand across his mouth.

"Will you go in Bobby's office now?" Sam asked low, spinning the long silver blade in a delicate arc over his fingers.

"Not wise, Goliath," Gabe called.

Cas threw him a sharp look, although his eyes were drawn quickly back to Dean. He was both baffled by Dean's unusual reaction and warmed by Sam's quick defense of his brother. That was a good sign. He was also fighting a surprisingly strong urge to _protect_.

"And you said my Enochian was shit," Gabe whispered.

Cas ignored him, walking slowly toward the humans. "Sam."

Sam stiffened, but spun around, his expression just as unwelcoming as before. His hazel eyes were dark but calm. Resolute.

Cas noted that he kept Dean positioned behind him, offering himself as a shield. He paused, hoping an olive branch would become suddenly apparent.

Dean exhaled impatiently and shoved his brother aside. "Sam, for God's sake. Put that thing away before you get us all blown to hell."

Cas relaxed when Dean stalked past the taller man and headed straight for him.

Gabe snorted. "Well that was anticlimactic."

"Are you all right?" Cas asked, eyes roving over Dean's pale face.

"Fine," Dean barked, wincing when Cas blinked. "Sorry," he amended, modulating his volume. "Um," he rubbed at his ears; they were still ringing. "Cas, this overzealous asshole is my baby brother Sam. Sam, this is," he stopped, uncertain of far too many things to trust himself to christen whatever this new relationship was supposed to represent.

"Castiel," Cas said solemnly, reading Dean's insecurities and making a silent vow to find a way to ease them. He extended a hand toward the taller man. "I am Castiel. And this is my brother, Gabriel."

"And I'm Ash, and this is Bobby," Ash called good naturedly from Bobby's office doorway.

"Ash! Shut the damn door," Bobby complained from the confines of the small room.

Sam stared at the hand for a long beat before coming forward to accept it, noting that Cas' grip was firm and strong. He ignored Gabe's proffered hand completely. "Undo the vow," he said quietly.

"Sam—"

Sam cut Dean off with a look.

"That's not possible," Cas began.

"Nothing's _impossible_ with you people," Sam sneered. He glanced over when Gabe chuckled. "What?"

"Oh, nothing," Gabe shrugged. "For an overprotective sonofabitch, you don't seem to have considered the consequences to your brother at all."

"The consequences are he won't be tied to one of you."

Gabe stared at Sam thoughtfully. "Your control is very strong. I can't read a blip." He glanced at Cas. "Can you?"

"I'm not trying," Cas said dryly. He stopped himself just before he reached for Dean. The other man's uneasiness was filtering across the space separating them in shallow waves.

"It's fascinating," Gabe murmured. He took a step closer, pausing when Sam twirled the still present blade. "Cute."

"He wouldn't survive," Cas interrupted when Sam's shoulders squared in defiance. When he had everyone's attention, from Ash in the doorway to Dean at his side, he sighed heavily. "We're bound. For better or for worse, the vow is permanent. He accepted my grace. It's done."

"Dean," Sam muttered under his breath, closing his eyes. "What did you do?"

"Nothing!" Dean's eyes widened in surprise. "I lit a candle, spoke some jibberish. I—" He trailed off, struggling to remember.

"He took it," Gabe picked at his fingernails with his own blade, it's appearance out of thin air a notable attempt at leveling the playing field. He winked up at Sam's scowl. "He _was _pretty smashed."

"You fucking—"

"Sam. I wanted it." Dean spoke the words in a quiet rush, squeezing his brother's elbow to lessen the punch he knew they would carry. When Sam's expression turned black, Dean shook his head sadly. "I don't expect you to understand. How could you? But I'm tired. I," he swallowed, hating that Cas was here to witness this humiliation. He had had no preformed opinions of Dean. In a way, it had been Dean's chance at a fresh start. His only chance. "It's business," he finished tiredly. "This is the best I could ever hope for and you know it."

Dean wondered if he could go home now, fall into his lumpy mattress and sleep for a week.

Cas threaded through the dark thoughts in Dean's head, surprised he wasn't being kept out, wondering if Dean even realized he had forgotten to shade him. He concentrated on the tiny spark of his grace that now resided in Dean's cells, calling to it, urging it to the surface.

Dean looked at him in surprise. He felt…calmer. Safe.

Wanted.

"We're going home now," Cas said quietly. He nodded once to Sam and turned to leave the garage.

Dean watched him walk away.

"Dean?"

Sam's concern washed over him, anchoring him the way it had for years, but there was something stronger now, something that belonged to Dean alone. "I trust him, Sammy," Dean admitted. "Maybe that'll bite me in the ass later," he chuckled and the sound was hollow. "But for now, I'm willing to let it ride."

"And bonus, you don't get your soul ripped out in the process," Gabe offered cheerfully.

"Shut up," Sam said, pointing the blade in his direction. He sighed down at his brother. "Okay. For now we let it ride. But I'm going to start researching."

"Nerd," Dean scoffed softly, throwing a fake punch.

Sam forced himself to dredge up a smile. "Go eat something green and get some sleep. You look like shit."

Dean waved him off with a wide grin. "I'm a handsome bastard and you know it." He jogged over to the office and poked his head in to tell Bobby he was leaving. When he shut the door, Cas was waiting at the edge of the bay, the fading afternoon light forcing him into silhouette. Whatever he had done to Dean earlier hummed to life again and danced along his nerve endings, gently nudging him forward.

Sam watched his brother leave with the angel, silent long after the sleek silver car had driven away.

Gabriel waited, sensing the younger Winchester wasn't finished with him yet, his own curiosity burgeoning about these two humans who were capable of inhuman things.

Sam tossed the long silver blade onto the hood of a nearby car and faced the archangel with a grim look.

"I want in."

…


	7. Dreams

_{{If you can dream-and not make dreams your master;_  
_If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim,_  
_If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster_  
_And treat those two impostors just the same.}}_

...

Sam handed Gabe a beer and settled against the kitchen counter. He took a drink and waited for the angel to speak.

Gabe studied the lanky young lawyer over the lip of the bottle, surreptitiously trying to find a crack in the wall keeping him out of his mind.

Sam grinned and crossed one ankle over the other. "You can stop poking. Never gonna happen."

Gabe huffed. "Come on! How do you do it?" He tipped the bottle back and swallowed. "Can Dean do it too?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah." He set his beer aside. "So. Tell me about the bond."

Gabe squinted. "Not one for small talk, are you?"

"Not when my brother's life is at stake, no."

"He's safer with Cas than anywhere else on Earth, I can promise you that," Gabe said swiftly.

Sam bristled. "I doubt that."

"What is it with you Winchester's and angels?" Gabe murmured, taking another long pull from the bottle and wishing for the umpteenth time he had more to go on than _lawyer_, _protective, _and _tall_ before he laid all his cards on the table.

"Angels and demons have taken, broken, or stolen everything we ever cared about." Sam straightened to his full height, his voice low and crackling with resentment.

Gabe held up a hand. "Hold on there, hoss," he soothed. "I'm not the enemy. I don't know how many other ways to say it."

"No? Then why are you here? And why do you need my brother?"

Gabe sighed heavily. "I can't tell you everything," he started, chuckling when Sam rolled his eyes. "But I'm going to break my own damn rule and tell you a lot." He thumbed behind him to the kitchen table. "Sit down and I'll make dinner."

Sam quirked one eyebrow. "It's my house."

"And you have food, right? You don't have that hungry gleam about the eye like your brother." He laughed again when a wave of righteous fury pulsed across the kitchen, Sam's emotions spilling over at the mention of Dean. "Simmer down, that wasn't meant to be accusatory. That brother of yours would rather starve to death than ask for help, am I right?"

Sam slumped on a barstool with a long suffering sigh. "Yes."

Gabe grinned. He smelled truce_. _"Pancakes or waffles?"

…

Somehow Dean had eaten dinner (baked chicken and mashed potatoes), gotten lost in the big house twice, located both a library and a den with a second giant TV, and still hadn't managed to exchange more than four sentences with the man he was married to.

It hadn't been awful, but he was left wanting and lonely regardless.

Cas had been quiet throughout dinner, and had disappeared after showing Dean into the den. When he reappeared later, his eyes were hooded and dark and Dean sensed the turmoil churning just beneath his calm, graceful surface.

But when he had asked, Cas had smiled and claimed exhaustion before bidding Dean good night.

Dean had tossed and turned in the strange bed, the sheets too smooth and the air too clear, for a long while before drifting off in a fitful sleep. His last conscious thought was of the door in the corner, and whether it had a lock.

…

_He hurt. _

_His mouth was taped shut, probably to silence the screams, and he could feel the damp residue of the glue on his upper lip. It would hurt when it was pulled away. _

_He tried to move, roll off of the burning agony across his lower back, but he was too weak. Nausea washed through him and he swallowed down the bile and closed his eyes, concentrating on even breaths to soothe his rapid pulse. _

_He thought of Sam. _

_When the door was wrenched opened, he pretended to be asleep._

…

Cas started awake to find Dean standing beside his bed in the dark. He struggled up on an elbow, blinking rapidly. "Dean." He hesitated when there was no response. "Are you all right?"

Dean's mouth worked and he tried to remember why he had come in here, feeling disoriented and foolish. He turned to leave.

Cas grabbed his wrist. "Dean?"

Dean tensed but waited, words still failing him, but the firm fingers on his arm grounded him in the _now._

"Do you want to stay with me tonight?"

This jolted him from the fog.

"No, I'm fine. Sorry. Bad dream." Dean tugged and Cas dropped his wrist but sat up and caught his hips. When he began to untie the drawstring of his pajama pants, Dean huffed a surprised chuckle. "What are you doing?"

"My bed, my rules," Cas grinned at him in the dark, pushing the pants to the floor before tugging Dean onto the bed beside him. He rolled him over, keeping him close on the big expanse of mattress, his hands grazing across Dean's broad shoulders, soothing. His palm skimmed feather light down the wings of his scapula, and then his spine, pausing on a jagged ridge of scar tissue low on his left flank.

Dean stiffened.

Cas' gentle fingers traced the scar's dimensions, before sliding to a stop at Dean's waist.

"I was twelve," Dean said quietly when the question never came.

Cas rested his chin on Dean's shoulder, studying his profile in the dark. "Was it for family?" he asked, hoping his instincts were wrong.

Dean pillowed his head on his bicep, the relentless anxiety of the day, the _week_, catching up to him. The pleasant buzz from proximity to the angel enveloped him in a haze of safe harbor and he thought he might be able to sleep without the dreams for once. "Nephilim," he mumbled, eyes fluttering closed. "Faulty human kidney."

Cas gathered him close, slotting them together like spoons. He nosed at the back of his ear, breathing deep the scent he already identified as uniquely _Dean_. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Dean shook his head. The hand around his midsection made lazy circles on his skin, chasing the last of the nightmare away. He shivered when lips brushed the corner of his jaw.

"You will sleep with me from now on."

Somehow the words didn't carry the weight of an order the way Dean would have expected; they were tender and welcome and made him feel safe for the first time in a long time.

Dean covered the hand on his chest with his own, pressing it into his skin, and slept.

…

He awoke slowly, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He was cocooned in a tangle of legs and blankets, and Cas' soft snores in his ear made him smile. The angel was wrapped around him like a cheap suit, and he wondered if he rolled over if he would find the handsome face smoothed of the worry lines that normally marred his too serious expression.

Dean grimaced. He needed to pee. He wriggled as he took stock of his current position, realizing with an awkward flush that Cas was aroused, and truth be told, he wasn't far behind.

"Apparently even angels have morning wood," he muttered, wondering how the hell he was supposed to extricate himself from the hand buried under the waistband of his boxers, fingers curled in the thatch of hair at his groin. It should have been be intrusive but instead it was oddly natural, and definitely enticing, and Dean's body was instantly on board, even if his mind was lagging.

When the fingers began to lazily scratch along the sensitive skin, he tensed.

"Morning," a gruff voice said in his ear.

Dean tried not to breathe; Cas was hard, the length of him wedged firmly against his backside. He at once was desperate to have this and terrified to screw it up.

Cas kissed a lazy path from neck to shoulder, oblivious to Dean's discomfort. "Sleep well?"

Dean nodded, clearing his throat. "Yeah. Uh, thanks."

Cas slid his hand out of Dean's shorts, which should have been a relief but left a pang of longing in its wake. "Me too." Another kiss. Cas was cat-like, lazy and warm and winding around Dean in the soft morning light, his sandpapery tongue leaving damp trails across his skin.

Dean's sleepy thoughts tumbled confusingly over one another. Was this the real Cas? This drowsy, affectionate mass of hands and lips that honed in on exactly the right places on Dean's body and made him want to forget who he was, who _they were_? Or was the real Cas one of the hardened, cynical angels Dean was more familiar with, whose energy crackled with enough power to take out a city in a burst of anger. He sucked in a breath when Cas pushed him to his back and simultaneously slid on top of him.

"Hi," Cas grinned, hair lopsided and messy and somehow still unreasonably attractive.

Dean smiled back, unable to stop. "Hi."

Cas hesitated, eyes falling to Dean's mouth.

Every pore tightened in anticipation as Dean waited. He wanted to taste what lay beyond the pale lips; it was an agonizing beat before he realized Cas was allowing him the opportunity to pull away. Warmth and affection seeped into his bones, coiling around the yearning in his gut, and he buried his fingers in Cas' dark hair to bring their mouths together.

_It was their first kiss_, Dean thought, and it was a simple thing to let Cas take back the lead. The angel explored his mouth slowly and with care, his movements cautious and sweet. His morning arousal was slotted perfectly next to Dean's, and Dean was embarrassed by his own gasp for air when they broke apart. Stupid angel probably didn't need oxygen.

"You are indescribably beautiful," Cas murmured, brushing the pad of a finger across his cheekbone.

"Oh my God," Dean chuckled, desperately flushing and squeezing his eyes closed. Cas laughed and the happy sound startled Dean, who blinked up at him in surprise. The blue gazing back was clear and luminous, reflecting the light from the window.

"_You_ are going to be a nice addition to my morning routine," Cas grinned, rolling off of the bed.

Much to Dean's dismay his hands followed, and he caught himself before he tried to pull him back. Cas padded to the dresser and pulled socks and underwear from the top drawer, then dropped them on the foot of the bed before disappearing inside the enormous closet. He returned with a pair of jeans and a cotton button down.

Dean knew he should avert his eyes when Cas stripped, but he didn't, enduring the simple torture without an ounce of regret. In another lifetime, the _other_ Dean Winchester would have offered to help with the angel's still aroused state of affairs below the waist, but this Dean could only watch, fascinated, as Cas began to dress, his pretty mouth turned up in a lazy grin, cheeks flushed with sleep . He yelped when Cas yanked the covers from the bed.

"If you get to look, so do I."

Dean leaned up on an elbow, but didn't retrieve the blankets. Cas' lingering gaze left his skin prickly and hot. "Voyeur much?" He tested the waters of teasing flirtation.

"Mmm," Cas shrugged. "You could help a guy out and lose the shorts."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a choppy sigh, mentally batting back the scene the words evoked. "You're not what I expected," he muttered. He jumped when a palm slid along his calf, followed by a dark head dropping to kiss his bare knee. "Cas…" But he didn't know how to ask, and he wasn't completely sure of what he wanted.

Cas stood and studied him as he buttoned his shirt. "Have breakfast with me?"

And it was entirely too domestic, and sweet, and _fucking normal._ As if they were any two newlyweds, happily navigating the first days of marriage, figuring out what made the other tick, what buttons to never push.

Dean desperately wanted to say yes. "I better get down to the shop. I have a lot of work to catch up on."

If Cas was disappointed, he didn't show it, his expression unchanging. But he surprised Dean again when he bent over the head of the bed and kissed him, cupping his jaw in one hand, far too gentle for Dean's shaky emotions. "I'll see you tonight then."

He turned and left the room.

Dean curled up on the strange bed, wrapping himself in the Cas-scented sheets, ignoring the burn behind his eyelids.

…


	8. Thursday

_{{And their sun does never shine,_  
_And their fields are bleak and bare,_  
_And their ways are filled with thorns:_  
_It is eternal winter there.}}_

...

Dean paused in the doorway of the immense kitchen. A girl was seated at the stainless steel-topped bar, munching on a triangle of toast and jam.

"Hey," she winked. Her hair was a mass of unruly blonde curls, her cheek creased, as though she had just climbed out of bed.

"Hey," he said, fidgeting. He had thought maybe he could catch Cas before he left, take him up on his offer.

"You're to have breakfast before you leave."

Dean jumped when a small woman with a severe expression and a dark topknot pushed past him. Before he could reply she jabbed a finger in the girl's direction.

"And you are to finish your toast and be on your way. Your services are no longer required."

The girl rolled her eyes. "Simmer down, nan" she muttered, cramming in the rest of her toast and licking her fingers.

"I'm not your _nan,_" the woman sniffed. She rounded on Dean, who still stood in the doorway. "Well, go on with you. _Sit_."

"Yes ma'am," Dean said automatically. He ignored the girl's cheery grin when he sat down at the bar beside her.

She stuck out a hand. "Wednesday."

"Yeah, I think so." Dean glanced around, wondering how this ragged slip of a girl fit into the grandeur of Castiel's household.

"No," the girl rolled her eyes and dragged Dean's hand from the gleaming steel to give it a firm shake. "My _name._"

"Funny name," Dean replied, taking a moment to admire the pretty flush in her cheeks before dropping her hand when the other woman slammed a plate down in front of him.

The girl laughed. "It's easier on everyone if we stick to our day."

"Never you mind about her. She won't be back." The housekeeper glared at Wednesday before disappearing into the pantry. She returned a few moments later with a glass of milk and an assortment of pale, chalky pills. She laid them beside Dean's plate.

"What the hell are those?" Wednesday asked, intrigued, reaching for one of the oblong shapes.

The housekeeper swatted her hand back. "Vitamins for Master Winchester."

Dean clenched his jaw, an angry flush suffusing his neck and cheeks. "It's just Dean," he said between his teeth. He pushed the vitamins toward the woman, exhaling slowly through his nose, knowing she was only following orders. "And I won't need these."

"Master Ca—"

"No." Dean's eyes glittered dangerously.

"Fine," she snapped, scooping up the pills and dropping them into the garbage disposal. She flipped the switch with a flourish and Dean winced when the loud grinding carried on far too long.

"I will be back in twenty minutes to clear." She looked pointedly at Wednesday before leaving the kitchen, the soft _thump_ of her shoes echoing behind her.

The subsequent silence stretched uncomfortably until Dean cleared his throat. "Well this is fun."

Wednesday snorted. "Yeah, Lena's a hardass, but she's loyal to Castiel." She shrugged. "Terrified, but loyal." She picked at one of the many pulls on her faded sweater.

Dean studied her discreetly, picking up a fork and digging into the pile of fluffy eggs on his plate. She was thin and pale, but not dramatically so, not like the girls outside the Roadhouse on Saturday nights, their desperate hollowness haunting and bleak. Wednesday's clothes were worn but mostly clean, and her skin was clear; she hadn't been living on the street, at least not in a while. And she was unerringly human.

"Do you work here?" he asked nonchalantly.

The girl cocked her head quizzically. "Sure." She sighed heavily and slid from her stool. "Or you know, I did for a while."

Dean watched her back away, stomach clenching at her expression.

"Take care_, Just Dean_," she said flippantly.

She was gone before he could reply, but the hungry gleam in her eyes followed him to Bobby's for work. It stayed with him when he walked to the bus stop after they closed, and it convinced him to take his regular bus home instead of the route that would deliver him to the edge of Cas' neighborhood.

His little house was still desolate and broken when he stepped over the dark threshold, but like the girl's expression, it was familiar.

…

"Dean!"

Dean jumped, nicking his knuckle a coil of metal. "Fuck." He shook his hand in frustration. "What!"

"Visitor!" Bobby bellowed.

"Jesus fucking _Christ,_" Dean swore again, leveraging his weight on the creeper and launching himself out from under the car. He recognized the stiff carriage of the legs a split second before he emerged and was grateful for even that small beat of preparation.

His heart still pounded hard in his throat when he met the angel's eyes.

"Dean."

"Cas." He sat up, scrabbling self-consciously for the rag stuck under his hip when Cas held out a hand. "I'm filthy, man."

Cas hesitated and then straightened, tucking his hands in his front pockets. Dean might have read his stiff posture as typical angel gravity and somberness, but there was an uneasy tick along the sharp line of his jaw, and Dean _knew._ He was upset.

He rolled to his feet. "Everything okay?" He wondered nervously what the appropriate angel protocol was for dealing with new husbands who kept ditching their spousal duties.

Whatever those were.

Cas took a deep breath.

_So they do breathe,_ Dean thought, recklessly admiring the shadowed hollow of Cas' throat. _Why he wasn't all buttoned up?_

"Will you require that I ask you to come home with me _every_ day?"

The words echoed through the small concrete garage. Dean flushed when somewhere behind him Ash snorted. "Cas—"

"Is the residence unsatisfactory in some way?" Cas asked, and the words were so sincere and his eyes were so troubled that Dean folded like a house of cards.

"God, no. Cas," he huffed, gritting his teeth when Ash began to whistle the opening bars of a sappy country love song. He grabbed Cas by the arm and dragged him across the oil-slick floor, ignoring Ash's hooting.

When they were standing outside in the bright sun, Dean dropped Cas' elbow self-consciously.

Cas tilted his face to the sky, the way he had the last time they had been here, and Dean was drawn to the long line of his neck. He _knew_ the scent of that tanned column of skin, knew how Cas' hands felt wrapped around him, how they buffered him from everything he feared and left a burning ache in their path. He burned with it even now.

He hadn't slept a goddamned wink last night.

He tipped forward and kissed him.

Cas' sharp intake of breath was quickly replaced by a faint growl in the back of his throat and Dean thrilled as the sound raised gooseflesh on his skin.

Cas walked him backward until Dean hit the faded concrete block wall, lips never leaving Dean's, hands sliding from shoulders to waist and then lower, cupping Dean's hips into the cradle of his own.

Then _Dean_ was growling and he thrust upward in frustration, biting at Cas' lips and sucking his tongue deep into his mouth, licking at the sharp edges of his teeth and burning the heady taste of him into his brain to pick over later. Cas melted into him, riding Dean's movements, fingers knotting in the cotton knit of his t-shirt.

They broke apart panting, mouths brushing with the rise and fall of their chests.

Cas delicately licked the bow of his upper lip and Dean groaned, his head falling back against the wall. "_Fuck._"

Cas eagerly followed, nestling impossibly closer, mouth latching onto the tantalizingly bare skin of Dean's neck.

Dean squeezed his hips and held him for a long moment, trying to remember why the hell he had dragged them both outside in the first place. It felt so good; Cas was warm and buzzing and _alive _in his arms, and Dean was finding it hard to concentrate on anything except the gentle rocking motion of Cas' hips and the sweet suction of his mouth on his Adam's apple.

_Wednesday._

Right.

"Cas." He pushed. Then pushed again when it became apparent Cas didn't hear him. "_Cas._"

Cas grunted, but lifted his head. His eyes were so deeply hued Dean had trouble deciphering the pupil in the shade of the building's overhang. "You started it," the angel grumbled unexpectedly, and Dean laughed.

"You're right, I did." He angled his head to brush a kiss across his lips. The sharp electrical thrill that shot straight to his groin was startling in its intensity. "But I have work to do."

"I'm staying," Cas said stubbornly.

Dean lifted one eyebrow. "You feel like getting your hands dirty?"

The immediate flare of heat in Cas' eyes had Dean swallowing hard.

"Hold that thought," he murmured, pushing them off the wall and straightening Cas' rumpled shirt. "You're a mess."

"One more." Cas impatiently brushed Dean's hands aside and reached for him.

Dean ducked away. "Work first. Then play."

Cas rolled his eyes, and Dean noted with no small amount of pride that the angel's cheeks were ruddier than normal. He didn't dare grab his hand to lead him into the building; for one, Ash would shamelessly taunt them, but more importantly, he wasn't sure they could sustain touch.

They were tender and match, and Dean could sense an inferno waiting to erupt.

First lesson was oil changes. The pit was extra crowded with two bodies in it, especially one that emitted an unearthly hum that wrapped around Dean like a thick blanket of unending _want_. But instead of distracting him, it soothed, brining everything else into focus.

He chuckled when Cas struggled to maneuver the unfamiliar tools, and guided his fingers as they loosened a bolt here, tightened a nut there.

Cas' triumphant smile when the first engine roared to life after the job was done, and done well, sent a bolt of pleasure through Dean that had nothing to do with sex.

"Hey hotshot, you and your boyfriend going to tag team every car today or can we speed it up now and actually make some money?" Bobby called sarcastically.

Cas raised his brows; it was unusual for a human to reference an angel in such a casual manner, but Dean just laughed. "Hold your shorts, old man, he ain't ready for the payroll yet."

"Boyfriend," Cas murmured, reaching up to rub a fleck of oil from Dean's cheek.

Dean froze. It was suddenly too hot, the walls of the crawlspace closing in. "Yeah, uh, just ignore Bobby. We all do," he winked, trying to recover their easy camaraderie.

"Husband," Cas corrected as Dean climbed out of the pit.

"Huh?" Dean reached down to offer a hand.

"I'm not your boyfriend. Even culturally speaking, we're married."

When Cas stood face to face with him, Dean cleaned his hands on a rag and then handed it to Cas to do the same. He watched him, feeling steadier than he had in days, maybe years. Trying to puzzle out when Cas was serious and when he was teasing might take a while, but he was surprised to find he was willing to try. "Let's start with friends and go from there."

He waited, lungs burning with the taste of stale grease and burnt rubber, as Cas succeeded in smearing oil from fingertip to wrist as he took too long to answer. Dean had practically forgotten about a scorching hot kiss against the dull paint of a cinderblock wall anyway.

"I'd like that," Cas said.

And if his eyes hadn't flicked to Dean's lips at the last second, Dean might have believed he had forgotten too.

"Let me have that," Dean murmured, something expanding and clicking into place behind his ribcage, as he set about cleaning the grime from Cas' fingertips. When he was satisfied he gave the fingers a squeeze and shoved the rag in his back pocket. "What?"

Cas' expression had softened in the deepening glow of the sunset that filled the interior of the shop. "You are an enigma, Dean Winchester."

Dean scoffed, hoping the burn in his ears didn't mean he was blushing again. Goddamn angel made him blush more than a priest in a whorehouse.

"I should go," Cas said suddenly.

"What?" Dean blinked. He had been under the assumption they would leave together, after closing, and here he was, _goddammit,_ blushing again, this time in embarrassment.

"I didn't realize how late it was getting. I have an errand I must take care of." He began to back toward the opening of the bay. "I will see you later?"

Dean's senses went on alert at the shift in Cas' demeanor; something about his expression was off. "Cas? What is it?"

"Nothing," Cas said swiftly, smiling. "I will see you later tonight." It was no longer a question, and he was gone before Dean could answer.

"That is one fine piece of angel flesh," Ash sighed.

"Shut up, Ash," Dean muttered, trying to figure out what had spooked Cas. He tossed his rag into the corner with a frustrated sigh. They had gone from potential lovers to budding friends and back to strangers in the course of a few hours, and by God Dean didn't downshift that fast.

"Hey, can you finish ringing up my girl in there?" Ash threw his thumb in the direction of the waiting room. "I'll back 'er car out into the lot."

"Sure," Dean said distractedly. With the shades drawn against the setting sun, the waiting room was dark enough it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. "Hey, let me get a total for you. Oil change?"

The woman stepped closer. "Just Dean?"

Dean shook his head in surprise. "Wednesday? Wow. I was thinking about you earlier."

The girl grinned. "Weird. Maybe you're psychic!"

"Nah," Dean chuckled. "If I was psychic, you think I'd be changing oil in this dive?"

"I heard that!" called Bobby from inside the small office.

"That'll be twenty-nine ninety five," Dean chuckled.

The girl pulled two battered twenties from inside her wallet. Dean couldn't help but notice there was nothing else there.

"Hey, you know what? I forgot. Half price special today! Fifteen total."

She didn't believe him; he could see it in the way her lips tightened, but she nodded in the affirmative and accepted the change when he handed it to her.

After she hurried from the shop, Dean turned to find Bobby leaning in the office doorway.

"I'll pay the difference," he said defensively before Bobby could speak.

"Damn fool boy," Bobby grumbled under his breath before he slammed the office door.

Ash popped his head in. "What's the matter?" he stage whispered.

Dean shrugged. "PMS."

"Well, you say something to Paula? She was crying when she got to her car."

"Wednesday," Dean said.

"No, it's Thursday." Ash cocked his head. "You feeling all right, Deano?" he asked when Dean laid a hand on the counter to steady himself.

"Her _name,_" Dean answered quietly. "Is Wednesday."

Ash shook his head slowly. "No, Dean. That's Paula Adams. Known her family since I was a kid."

And suddenly, it all made a horrifying kind of sense.

…

Dean waited in the cozy living room, the deep leather couches and plush carpeting beckoning him to stretch out, relax. It was a room for snuggling up in front of a warm fire or reading a book from the overflowing shelves. It was a room made for families and love and potential.

He had dismissed Lena after she served his dinner in the dining room. She had attempted to argue but when he had remained staunchly firm, she had sniffed in irritation and slammed out of the house shortly afterward.

And then he was alone.

Now, it was after eleven; he had expected Cas hours ago, and the intervening time had done nothing to quell the burn of anger.

Cas was no different than the rest of them.

He had married Dean, had made a place for him in his life, but in doing so had thrust how many others into further poverty? Had used how many like Paula over the years, so careless about her as a person, about her _humanity, _that he couldn't be bothered to use her name. How had she put it? He kept them straight by using their fucking _day._

Seven days. Seven people.

_Seven_ people possibly homeless, jobless, starving.

They were all Dean, in a way.

When the front door slammed, his head snapped up. His heart banged furiously in his chest, regret stupidly eclipsing his anger in a lonely moment that nearly broke him; he had been such a fool.

Dread burgeoned and spread, winding through his veins like ribbons of ice when instead of patient footsteps, there was only a strange scuffling on the tile as he waited for Cas to appear. Dean sprang to his feet at a loud _thud _and a crash, and was halfway to the foyer before he realized he had moved.

He skidded to a halt as he took in the scene. Cas was slumped against the heavy paneled door, one hand glowing where it covered the gaping wound in his side, ethereal wisps of blue curling around lax fingers and disappearing into the air.


	9. Drawn

_{{To begin with, take warning,_

_I am surely far different from what you suppose;}}_

"Cas?" Dean crouched beside the still figure. His instinct was to touch him, cradle his lax jaw in his palm and will him to open his eyes, but he hesitated; he was still an angel wielding enormous—and potentially untethered—power. When there was no response, he cautiously stroked the darkly stubbled cheek. "Cas, come on."

An agonizingly empty second ticked by before the thick black lashes fluttered. Dean sank to the floor. "Jesus Christ," he exhaled. Fine whispers of blue snaked around his arm, humming with latent energy, and he quickly pressed his palm over the source.

Cas' eyes flew open, the intense color boring into him.

"Ca—"

Cas surged forward and sealed their mouths together.

Dean jerked as a current slammed through him. He would have cried out, but Cas held him in place, one hand gripping the back of his head, something wild and hot and thrilling pouring between them. Dean saw stars, a billion swirling, winking constellations, and he was caught in a vortex, galaxies, maybe heaven itself, speeding past in a kaleidoscope of color and light. His sternum throbbed where the ring seared his skin, vibrating under his shirt.

He was going to pass out.

Cas wrenched away, and Dean fell, wrist popping when he caught himself on the cold marble. The pain grounded him and he gasped, lungs working to push oxygen in and out, throat _aching_, raw, as he swallowed over and over again. He was acutely aware of every loop of soft fiber in his t-shirt stretching across his back as he sucked the stale air in the foyer. He flexed the fingers on his left hand; he could no longer feel them but they moved, which he counted as a good sign.

Cas reached for him and he flinched back. He would have already crawled away but he was ninety percent sure his legs would never hold him.

"Dean," Cas rasped, voice rough and brittle with pain. "Dean, we have to get up, they'll be here any minute."

The words were distant and warbling, beating their way through the thick cotton candy coating that buffered Dean. His ears still rang with the sound of stars. He dragged his eyes up to meet the angel's. "What the fuck_," _he ground out between his teeth, "was _that_?"

Cas groaned and used the brass handle to drag himself up against the door. He held out a hand, still clutching his side, the torn edges of his shirt tinted dark with drying blood.

The blue light was gone.

Dean ignored the proffered hand and pushed unsteadily to his feet. He considered the odds of shoving the weakened angel aside and taking off down the drive; _fuck this. _

He knew Cas had read his mind when the angel winced and moved away from the door. He had become careless about shielding his thoughts from Cas since that day in the garage, although he didn't like to think too long on the reasons.

Cas swayed and Dean jumped forward to catch him, cursing under his breath, unsure which of them he was angrier with. _Damn fool angel,_ he thought, wrapping an arm around his waist and half-carrying him into the living room.

"Goddammit, I'm mad at you," Dean muttered, dumping him unceremoniously on the big leather couch and shaking his hands. The feeling had come back in all of his extremities, shooting pins and needles down his arms and legs. "And who the hell is coming?" Cas' eyes were dull and glazed, and Dean's breath stuttered as he was slammed with an image of Cas' flat gaze, vacant with death. _Did angel's die?_ He squatted beside the couch and pressed his palm over Cas' hand, covering his injured side. "Hold on there, angel," he murmured. "You still with me?"

"Dean, go," Cas groaned, the raspy words tinged with anger and frustration as he struggled to sit.

"No, you know what, fuck you," Dean said perfunctorily, pushing on Cas' shoulders until he was lying flat. "And let me take a look at the damage."

"I just need a minute," Cas mumbled, but his breathing was too shallow, and when Dean surreptitiously checked his limp wrist, his pulse was fast and thready. His lips thinned, expression grim as he ripped open the white cotton dress shirt, exposing Cas' torso.

Cas gritted his teeth, lids falling to half mast when Dean's hands gentled on his skin. "Dean," he said softly.

Dean ignored him and ran his fingers over the perimeter of the jagged tear below Cas' ribcage. The bloody edges were moving, stretching, trying to knit together. It was disgusting, and maybe a little fascinating, but even amidst the ghoulishness Dean could tell they were never going to close on their own. Something was wrong.

"I need to stitch you up."

"No time," Cas moaned, grabbing the back of the sofa and ignoring Dean's protests to haul himself to a sitting position.

With his shirt flayed open, eyes glittering and dangerous, _fuck_ he looked good, and suddenly Dean was the one having heart palpitations. "Who's coming?" he interrupted when Cas' mouth opened. He took quick stock of the living room, surveying it for weapons.

If there was one thing the Winchester boys knew, it was self defense.

"No." Cas' gruff voice was stronger now. "You need to get out of here. Take one of the cars in the garage." He coughed and the sound was too wet for Dean's liking.

"I'm not leaving," Dean said flatly. "Demons or angels, Cas. And be quick about it, I'm a little rusty as it is." He rolled his neck, the high voltage hit from earlier shooting waves of lactic acid through his muscles. He still knelt beside the sofa and his thighs were starting to protest. He would be sore as _fuck_ tomorrow. When he glanced up, Cas was looking at him like he was seeing him for the first time, and Dean had to remind himself to be steady.

"Demons. Probably several."

"Goddammit," Dean grimaced. "I hate those oily fuckers."

Cas chuckled unexpectedly. "Me too."

Dean grinned and they shared a moment, an awareness crackling to life in the sliver of space that separated them. Dean broke the spell by slapping one hand down on the leather cushion. "So what'd you do? Kick their ass at poker night?" He wagged his eyebrows. "Steal their women?" He tapped Cas' foot with a finger. "You should take these off. And your shirt."

Cas hesitated but twisted out of the ruined garment. "Yes. Basically." He toed off his shoes.

"Basically?" Dean's voice rose in a surprised crescendo. "Basically _which_ _one?_"

"I took something they were very fond of." Cas was calm now, but pale. He was going into shock, if the fine tremble in his fingers was any indication. "And I set it free."

"And you got stabbed as a souvenir?" Dean stood and pulled Cas to his feet. "Well, congratulations, now they're coming for you," he grumbled when Cas didn't answer. When he was sure the angel could stand unassisted, he ripped his own t-shirt over his head and threw it behind him.

Cas' eyebrow quirked up in amusement.

Dean ignored his smirk and made quick work of Cas' fly.

"Dean, I—"

"Shut up and lie down in front of the fire." Dean pushed Cas' pants off the jut of his hips, dragging his underwear down with them. With no time to set this up, they were going to have to go for broke for authenticity. He grabbed two throws from the end of the couch, frowning when he turned to find Cas still standing there, watching him. He tossed the blankets to the floor. "Come on, angel, we're outta time." He dropped to his knees and worked the pants from Cas' legs, carefully avoiding the raw, angry gash on his side; he couldn't help dragging a soft kiss across the unblemished skin of his stomach on his way back up though, and Cas' eyes sparked hot and bright when he stood.

Dean pushed his fingers through Cas' hair, thrilling at the springy touch of the dark strands. He had been wanting to do that for days_._

Too bad it was all for show.

He kicked Cas' pants aside and nudged him gently toward the blankets, hands twitching with the need to _touch_. He gave in and faintly dragged his palm down Cas' spine, frowning when the growing twist of desire in his gut was stoked instead of mollified.

"This is a terrible idea," Cas complained.

"Just lie down. And keep that souvenir covered up. I'll handle the rest." Dean yanked off his own shoes, tossing the left in one direction and the right in another. He surveyed the room before grabbing Cas' boxers from the floor. "When this is over, we are definitely getting you an upgrade on these," he muttered before draping the plain white cotton over the arm of an oversized recliner.

To an outside observer, he hoped it looked like the clothing had been flung haphazardly from two bodies in the throes of passion.

"Dean—"

Exasperated, Dean turned and cut him off with a hard kiss. He had to restrain himself from reaching down and taking what he wanted from the expanse of bare skin; absent of the barrier of clothing, Cas' scent was everywhere, seeping into his pores, making it hard to concentrate.

He broke off and studied the angel, grunting in satisfaction when he noted the high flush in his cheeks and the wet shine of his mouth. "Your lips were too pale," he said matter of factly when Cas continued to stare. He traced Cas' bottom lip with his thumb, pulling it down to reveal even, white teeth. _Maybe just one more. _

He started when there was a loud pounding on the door. "Show time," he winked. He didn't resist the urge to pat Cas' backside before lowering him to the ground. He floated a blanket over his nudity before turning toward the foyer.

"Be careful."

When Dean glanced over his shoulder, Cas was leaning up on an elbow, hair askew, shoulders bare; he was Dean's new favorite wet dream come to life. Dean grinned. "You just lie there and look thoroughly debauched."

He could hear a gruff voice barking commands in addition to a more insistent banging as he approached the entry. Dean suppressed a shudder when the black oiliness of the creatures on the other side seeped into him, invading his consciousness. He unbuttoned his fly and mussed his own hair before pinching his neck in a vicious twist. It burned as the blood rushed to the surface; it would be an angry bruise by morning.

Thinking about even an imaginary Cas' mouth on his neck sent the blood rushing immediately southward, and Dean flung open the door.

The man on the stoop looked momentarily surprised, before his eyes narrowed in an evil smirk. He took in Dean's undress in an instant, beady eyes raking over his bare chest and lingering on his crotch. The guard behind him waited silently.

Dean willed himself not to fidget. "Gentleman. How can I help you?" he asked, tone dripping with geniality. He threw one forearm above his head and leaned into the doorframe.

"Where is Castiel?"

"Indisposed." Dean's smile never faltered.

"I demand the angel Castiel's presence immediately by order of the Joint Counsel of Angel and Demon." This command came from one of the guards. None of the security detail held weapons; Dean assumed they didn't really need them, all things considered.

Dean's eyes hardened. The counsel was the governing body of the supernatural inhabitants of Earth, an equal partnership of angel and demon meant to ensure the equality and fair living conditions of each race among and with their human counterparts.

Unfortunately, the balance of power had long since been so distorted, the standards originally meant to protect life on Earth were responsible for the annihilation of much of the human race. Humans were allowed to have a leader who governed on their behalf, and in the case of the United States that was still the President, but even those long-revered institutions were woefully corrupt. Angels and demons controlled the fate of humanity and as far as Dean was concerned, the Joint Counsel could go fuck itself.

"Now is not the best time," Dean drawled, throwing the chatty one a wink. The demon's eyes made his skin crawl; there was something vaguely familiar about him.

"Are you refusing to obey a direct order?" The question was delivered so softly, Dean couldn't quite suppress a shiver.

He covered it with an exaggerated shrug. "Look, I just want to get back to my very pleasurable evening." He faked a heavy sigh and stepped away from the door.

The demon shoved past him into the foyer, his eyes bouncing from one corner of the house to the next. Dean could feel him slamming against the wall in his mind in frustration. The demon swung around. "Where is he? And don't lie to me."

"Like I said. Indisposed." Dean crossed his arms defiantly.

One of the guards stepped forward menacingly. "The angel Castiel was seen leaving a medical facility with stolen property less than one hour ago. He is to be detained for further questioning."

Dean scoffed. "I don't think so." The guard's face twisted, and Dean hid his grin. _Too easy._

"Are you refusing a direct order?"

"No, I'm telling you Cas wasn't in your medical facility an hour ago, because I was blowing him in the living room."

The demon was watching Dean closely now; instead of battering against the wall, he was trying to insinuate his way under it. The slick feel of him sliding over the barrier in his mind was ten times worse than the previous blunt force.

"You're lying."

Dean grinned lazily and tilted his head so that the new mark was visible. "Does this look like I'm lying?" He laid a hand on his hip, one finger sliding through a belt loop, hoping it looked for all the world like he was trying to hold up his pants. "We _are_ newlyweds."

"Castiel!" The demon's guttural yell echoed through the foyer and Dean jumped.

"You're a real buzzkill, you know that?" Dean muttered, but he quirked his finger for the demon and his guard to follow him. He had hoped that maybe he could persuade them to leave without ever seeing Cas, but that was clearly not an option.

In the living room, Cas was lying in front of the fire, one hip and thigh bare, groin precariously close to being exposed on his uninjured side by the low-riding blanket. The pale gold light of the flames licked over his glowing skin.

In spite of the hair standing up on the back of his neck, Dean had to swallow a few times when his mouth watered.

"Alistair," Cas said smoothly, voice like molten honey.

Dean's dick twitched as a poorly-timed spark of desire kicked caught and held. _Not out of the woods yet, _he chastised his overeager libido. Cas gave him a soft, intimate smile when he crossed the room and dropped to his knees beside him like a good and docile—human—husband.

_Yeah, right,_ Dean thought sarcastically. His back to the demons, he smirked at the angel.

"You were encountered leaving the Lawrence Medical Research Facility at ten p.m. this evening with a patient." Alistair had calmed, but Dean could hear the hard thread of suspicion under the words. They weren't fooling him.

_Not yet,_ Dean thought grimly, licking his lips before sinking back on his haunches and letting his knees fall wide. From behind he _hoped_ he appeared vulnerable, submissive; as long as he was performing, he might as well do a damn convincing job of it. Fucking angels and demons were all the same; he had grown up witness to their callous treatment of whatever unfortunate soul they chose for companionship. Few humans made it to old age in that world, but those who did, were left a vacant shell of their former selves.

He stiffened, anger flushing his cheeks, and the restless movement splayed open his unfastened fly. Cas' eyes darkened and Dean realized belatedly that he was playing with more than one kind of fire here.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken." Cas shifted, dragging the blanket higher before reaching forward to toy with Dean's stomach. He grazed the back of his hand across the smooth skin, brushing lightly over the dips and valley's, smiling when the muscles quivered in response. He pushed one finger under the elastic of Dean's boxers.

Dean bit his lip, eyes fluttering closed. _Goddammit._ He was fast losing track of the conversation going on around him. If Cas didn't stop, he wasn't going to be able to remember his name, much less the Latin needed to exorcise a room full of demons if this whole charade went pear-shaped.

"You see, I've been spending my nights very close to home these days," Cas reached for one of Dean's hands, and Dean blinked his eyes open in fascination as he pulled it to his mouth. Cas sucked a fingertip between his lips, biting into the soft pad of skin before continuing. "I'm sure you can understand."

Alistair surged forward but the guard in front caught him by the arm. The demon scowled but obeyed.

Cas pushed gently at Dean's hip, and dazed, Dean tried to read the message in the sharp look he gave him. He glanced down and realized he needed to reposition, shield the knife wound; the blanket had shifted, revealing a bloody, gaping edge. He bent forward and swiftly kissed Cas on the mouth, using the action to hide his hand as he tugged the knit throw into place.

He grinned when he heard the demon Alistair protest in disgust, before flipping around and scooting his backside close to Cas' stomach, careful not to bump into him. He hoped like hell they didn't have to make any sudden movements; they were both entirely too vulnerable on the floor, and he was half hard in his shorts. _Jesus._ He kept his eyes down, meek and obedient, while he strategized a contingency plan.

When he chanced a glance up, at least one of the guards was leering, his dark eyes trailing Cas' hand where it stroked Dean's bare waist.

"If that will be all?" Cas asked coolly.

Dean held his breath.

The guard who had stopped Alistair before, now frowned at the demon. "Can you provide surveillance to discount the angel's story?"

"Are you questioning my command?" Alistair asked quietly.

To his credit, the guard stood his ground, although his comrades shifted uneasily. Dean tried to read the power balance and failed.

"Do you have surveillance?" the guard asked again.

Alistair looked at Dean and Cas, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Dean shivered and Cas' hand tightened imperceptibly.

"The footage is blank," the demon finally said.

There was a beat of silence as the two sides contemplated one another.

"Then that will be all," Cas said with quiet authority. "Please see yourselves out."

Dean braced himself, waiting for all hell to break loose, the air crackling with an ugly dark energy. Instead, Alistair strode out of the room, and the guard followed.

"Inias." Cas' voice was cold and Dean tensed. The lead guard stopped in the doorway. "Never breach the entry of my home without cause again."

The guard nodded and left the room.

Cas fell back on the floor when the front door slammed and Dean let out a long exhale.

"Fuck me," he moaned, rubbing his temples. The adrenaline flooding his system was making him lightheaded.

"I very nearly did," Cas muttered and Dean snorted.

He looked down at the angel. He was too pale, and the sheen of sweat on his brow wasn't just the glow from the fire; he was in pain and if the bright shine of his eyes was any indication, he was in trouble. "Cas?"

"Call Gabriel, Dean."

…


	10. Want

_{{"I want"—it pleaded—All its life—  
I want—was chief it said  
When Skill entreated it—the last—  
And when so newly dead—_

I could not deem it late—to hear  
That single—steadfast sigh—  
The lips had placed as with a "Please"  
Toward Eternity—_}}_

...

Dean dug through the medicine cabinet in the ground floor bathroom. Gauze, antibiotic ointment, iodine, dental floss, nail scissors… He frowned, remembering the torn flesh of Cas' abdomen, the edges weakly stretching, trying to knit together, and wondered if the housekeeper did any mending. He dumped the supplies into a round basin, along with a couple of clean towels and carried it all into the living room.

Cas was lying on the sofa, eyes closed (boxers blessedly _on_). His chest rose and fell evenly with each breath, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. He set the bowl on the floor and carefully placed a clean gauze pad over the open wound. He looked around the room for a mending basket, like his mom used to have.

"Why were you mad at me?"

Dean glanced down to find Cas' feverish eyes trained on his face. He circled a finger over his head. "Any idea where Lena keeps her sewing?" Even as the words left his mouth, Dean spotted a corner of wicker in his peripheral vision. Cas' hand caught the back of his thigh when he moved, gently holding him in place.

"Dean."

"Not now, Cas," Dean said gruffly, avoiding the angel's gaze. He was getting more anxious every minute that passed without Gabriel's appearance. As a kid he and Sam had spent countless hours down in Bobby's basement reading lore on angels and demons, devouring fairytales about their supernatural powers, trying to comprehend the unimaginable feats of telekinesis or teleportation.

For the first time in his life, Dean wished the legends were true, and Gabe could have magically appeared when he called.

"You were remarkable—" Cas broke off on a hacking cough and Dean crouched beside the sofa, alarmed.

He held the gauze in place until Cas' relaxed again. "Hang in there just a little while longer, okay? Gabe's on his way."

"I'll be fine," Cas muttered irritably, covering his eyes with a weary.

"Yeah, you look just peachy," Dean retorted drily, his panic leeching away with Cas' bad temper. _He can't be dying if he's pouting,_ he thought, hiding a grin. And he was pouting, his full bottom lip even more lush than usual where he had bitten into it in pain. Dean dipped forward and kissed him before he thought.

Cas was smiling when he pulled away. "What was that for?"

Dean shrugged. "Distraction?" His neck burned, and he knew he was blushing because Cas' eyes turned fond and his hand moved to brush the bare skin of Dean's stomach.

"I'm glad you didn't put your shirt back on."

Humor bubbled up inside of Dean, unexpected and effervescent, and he expelled a warm chuckle, limbs flooding with relief. _Stupid angel._ "Perv."

Cas' eyes turned serious, and his hand stilled, knuckle resting against Dean's navel. "Did I hurt you in some way?"

"Cas—" Dean sighed when the front door opened to voices raised in argument. _Only my pride, _he thought as he stood. He could still clearly remember Wednesday's sad eyes, but he couldn't quite dredge up the angry certainty he had nursed before, that Cas was the villain in this story.

_"You're an idiot." _The words echoed through the foyer and Dean's head whipped around at the familiar voice.

"Thanks for that helpful assessment, counselor, I'll take it under advisement," Gabe quipped. He stopped in the doorway to survey the scene. "Well, well well," he drawled. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

Dean gritted his teeth and swallowed a retort. "Sam? What are you doing here?"

"Oh, your very appealing brother and I bonded over waffles and bacon ages ago," Gabe smirked. "You're way behind."

"Sam doesn't eat pork," Dean grumbled, stepping aside so Gabe could kneel beside Cas' prone form.

Sam was staring at Dean with an odd expression.

"What?" Dean asked, defensive. Then he realized he wasn't wearing a shirt, and he stalked over to retrieve his discarded tee from the floor, blush deepening. "This is _not_ what it looks like."

"Of course it isn't," Gabe muttered. "It looks too much like a good time."

"Gabe," Cas warned, wincing when Gabe peeled back the gauze.

"So what _did_ happen?" Sam asked quietly, and Dean's taut shoulders relaxed a fraction of an inch.

"Demon showed up with the counsel guard to arrest Cas for trespassing." He cocked his head, thoughtful. "And stealing. I think."

Gabe whistled. "And you managed to wiggle the both of you out of _that?_" He grinned at Dean over his shoulder. "Nicely done, handsome."

Cas sucked in a breath when Gabe's fingers grazed the edge of the wound and Dean tensed, hands fisting at his sides. "Careful."

"Yeah, yeah," Gabe murmured. "Simmer down, boy-o." He frowned as he hovered a palm over Cas' midsection. A faint light pulsed between the two angels. He dropped his hand to his thigh and chastised Cas. "You're running on fumes." He twisted his neck around to look at Dean accusingly. "Apparently I misjudged your willingness to get your happy on."

Dean bristled. "What are you talking about?"

"Tell him," Sam interrupted what looked to be a pithy retort from Gabe. His expression brooked no argument.

"Tell me what?" Dean shrugged off the calming hand Sam had placed on his arm. "Cas?"

"Dean—" Cas broke off on another cough. Much to Dean's horror, the faint blue wisps returned, leaking from the wound in his abdomen.

Gabe reached behind him to grab Dean by the arm, forcing him to his knees beside him on the floor. He jammed Dean's hand over the open wound and Dean winced. Cas writhed in pain, his eyes rolling back in his head as Dean struggled against the archangel's grip on his wrist, trying to get away.

"You're hurting him," Dean ground out, using the fingers of his free hand in a vain attempt to dislodge him.

"Pain is good," Gabe grunted. "It means he's alive."

Dean was only vaguely aware that Sam hovered behind them, the seconds ticking by agonizingly slow as something restless shifted in his conscious. His palm burned, as it had before in the foyer, but there was no pain this time, and he tasted sharp, bitter cold on the back of his tongue, like the frosty interior of his deep freeze.

He didn't pass out, which he counted as a plus.

Cas settled under his touch, and beneath his hand Dean felt the edges of the wound moving. He became frightened and tried again to pull away.

"What's happening?" he choked out as Gabe held him firm.

"I'm using your stupid soul as a conduit, since you've apparently been too selfish to share."

"I," Dean swallowed. "What?"

"Please shut up and let me concentrate."

Dean noted faint beads of perspiration had popped out on Gabe's upper lip; the archangel's intent stare serious enough that he stopped struggling and relaxed his arm. Almost immediately he was hit with another taste of frost and a jolt of electricity thrummed through his body. Cas' body jerked and then stilled and his eyes fluttered open.

"Gabe, no," he whispered, one hand coming up to push weakly at Dean's arm.

"Shut up, baby bro, I'm almost..." Gabe concentrated, frown lines deepening between his brows. "Finished," he said triumphantly. He released Dean's wrist.

Dean sat back on the floor with a _thump._ He looked at his palm and then at the ugly, pink scar on Cas' stomach. He scrambled forward to touch it for himself, to feel that it was truly healed.

"Okay, so it isn't my best work," Gabe grumbled. He tapped his fist on Dean's shoulder. "Which is your fault for not being more accommodating with the skin to skin, asshole."

Cas flinched when Dean's fingers traced the raised, reddened skin.

"Sorry," Dean murmured, reluctantly pulling his fingers back.

"It's sensitive," Cas rasped. He struggled to sit up and Gabe rolled his eyes at Dean's apparent hesitancy, shoving him aside and hauling Cas upright.

"You're pretty useless. I'm thinking we should throw you back for a do-over."

Dean ignored his jabs and rested his hands on Cas' knees. He relished the solid warmth of bone and flesh under his palms. "Will you please tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Yeah and while you two have a heart to heart, Bigfoot and I will ward the whole damn house. While we're totally not eavesdropping."

"Still not funny," Sam muttered under his breath.

Gabe grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. "It's a little bit funny."

Dean watched his brother follow the archangel into the foyer in consternation. He still needed to figure out what _that _whole story was about.

"You met one of the Days." Cas' voice was husky, tired, and one of his fingers traced the large blue vein on the back of Dean's hand. "Wednesday."

Dean stiffened but met Cas' gaze and nodded slowly. "You saw."

"Some." Cas winced and leaned back against the sofa. "Your head is a mix of thoughts and memories I don't understand," he trailed off before holding out a hand, beckoning Dean to come to him.

Dean considered refusing for about half a second, but the draw of the angel was too strong and he allowed Cas to pull him onto the couch beside him. "That's odd, they're mostly about you," he finally grumbled, knowing there was no sense in denying it; Cas had already been in his head.

Cas laughed softly. "In case you weren't paying attention, the feeling is mutual."

Dean's eyes flew to his. There was no guile there, only clear, blue sincerity staring back at him. "What are the Days, Cas?"

Cas sighed wearily. "Power, mostly." He shrugged, refusing to let go of Dean's hand when he tried to tug it free. His thumb worked in circles on the calloused skin of his palm and sent sparks of dull heat pulsing through Dean. "Companionship. Duty."

Dean frowned. "I'm coming back to the last one in a second. Explain the first one." Instinctively, he flexed the hand that had been in contact with Cas' wound, remembering starlight.

"Dean, an angel's power is not absolute outside of heaven." When Dean didn't offer a blithe retort, Cas continued. "It's…draining to remain on earthly soil, cut off from the heavenly host. The depth of an angel's grace is largely dependent on proximity to the most pure power source in all creation: God. Over time…that power is diminished."

Dean pondered this for a moment. "So you return occasionally to recharge."

Cas shook his head slowly. "Not exactly. Traveling between the two dimensions is dangerous these days."

"Because of the demons." Dean sighed heavily. "I don't suppose the juice draining thing applies to those bastards too?" he asked hopefully.

Cas smiled. "For most, yes. The majority of demons are fallen angels, after all." He watched Dean carefully. "In order to remain at peace, neither side can afford to allow the other to become more powerful. And demons are notoriously underhanded. We had to find… other methods of rejuvenation."

"Human souls," Dean muttered. He scraped a palm over his mouth, thinking of the vacant-eyed people he had witnessed in the companionship of angels and demons over the years. Sucked dry. Soulless. "So what, we're just a revolving all you can eat buffet?"

"Not for me," Cas said sharply. Dean winced and Cas realized he had tightened his grip on Dean's wrist. He relaxed his fingers, rubbing the reddened skin. "Not for me," he repeated softly.

"The Days," Dean murmured, understanding dawning. "Instead of sucking one dry, you take a little over time. Rotating the wear and tear. Like tires."

They sat in silence, one trying to parse this new information, one saddened by its necessity. Sam's soft incantation of ancient Latin was a steady hum in the background.

"Your soul burns so bright, Dean," Cas said softly, stroking Dean's cheek.

Dean held extremely still when the angel tipped forward to kiss him, lips moving slowly over his.

Cas pulled away reluctantly when Dean didn't respond. "You're upset."

"How many have you drained?"

Cas froze, his mouth dropping open in horror. "Dean, none."

"Just tell me, Cas. I'm one in a long line, right? I deserve to know. How many?"

"Dean." A vein in Cas' jaw ticked and he closed his eyes. When he opened them again they were stormy, a dull, dark thundercloud on a summer day. "Regardless of what my kind has done to you or your family, your kin, I would never abuse my power as a representative of heaven."

"But you had the Days, Cas. You used their souls to juice your own mojo." Dean pushed harder even though a part of him was screaming to stop, that Cas' skin was too pale, the circles under his eyes too dark. He questioned his sanity in that moment because the need to protect Cas was fighting to override what he knew to be _right._

"To maintain," Cas sighed wearily. "To continue my post, yes. But only in minute amounts. The human soul regenerates expediently, if allowed the time to do so." When Dean's frown softened, he shifted closer, ducking forward to kiss the corner of his downturned mouth. "I've been told the experience is not unpleasant," he whispered when Dean didn't pull away.

"So… you're basically an incubus," Dean muttered, leaning into the kiss in spite of himself.

Cas huffed, and his amused exhale ruffled the hair at Dean's temple. "I guess I am."

Dean bit back a smile, buoyed by the unexpected jolt of humor. His eyes turned serious. "You couldn't heal because you haven't had any super secret bonding time since we were, uh, you know_," _he stuttered over the word _married._

"I wasn't worried."

"Well _I am_," Dean's voice rose incredulously.

Cas blinked. "Why?"

Dean laid his palm directly over the scar tissue on Cas' flank and the angel flinched. "Why? _Why? _Oh I don't know. Maybe because you didn't think twice about daring thefts of important demon artifacts when you were already running low on happy juice?!"

Cas smiled softly and combed his fingers through Dean's still unruly hair.

Dean fidgeted. "Don't smile when I'm yelling at you." His scalp tingled, and he stopped just shy of mewling like a kitten when Cas scratched a hard path from his crown to his nape.

Instead of answering, Cas pulled Dean's face close and kissed him, softly at first and then more insistently, his tongue delicately tracing the seam of his mouth. Dean moaned low in his throat and parted his lips.

Sam cleared his throat.

Dean jumped back and swiped at his mouth. "Excellent timing, Sammy." He hoped the breathless quality to his voice went unnoticed.

"The house is warded. You should be safe until Cas is stronger."

"And get naked. Pronto." Gabe tossed a few slips of paper on the end table. "Pizza coupons. Buy one get one free." He wagged his eyebrows. "Stay _indoors_ if you know what I mean."

"Oh my God," Sam complained, grabbing Gabe's elbow and pulling him toward the door. "Dean, we need to ward Gabe's house. He'll be the next target. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Sammy—"

"Tomorrow." Sam's voice was firm but the message behind his eyes was clear; he wasn't ready to talk about whatever had brought him into alliance with an archangel, and all things considered, Dean could respect that. Given his own mucked up life of the past few weeks, he figured they could both use a little processing time.

"Bossy and demanding is a good look on you," Gabe swooned.

"Shut up," Sam's retort echoed off the vaulted ceiling as he dragged Gabe through the foyer.

The front door slammed and Dean and Cas were alone.

Cas yawned, wincing when the motion pulled on the inflamed scar tissue.

"And off to bed with you," Dean said matter of factly, pulling Cas to his feet. He had all but forgotten that Cas was clad only in his boxers, and he smiled at how vulnerable the angel appeared. It gave Dean some much-needed equilibrium. "Straight up. I'll be there after I check all the doors." He pushed Cas in the direction of the stairwell.

"I'll help—"

"Cas." Dean turned him toward the stairs, massaging the knotted tendons in Cas' shoulders. "I'll be there. Promise."

Cas started the slow climb to the second floor.

"And take it easy going up the stairs," Dean called, fretting, wondering if he should forgo the door check and help Cas to the master suite instead, knowing he would never rest easy until he had checked all the locks, wards or not.

The black nothingness that had lurked behind the demon Alistair's eyes was going to haunt him for a while.

When Dean crept into his bedroom to wash up, he found Cas in his bed instead of the larger one in Cas' extravagant room. He shook his head; dumb angel needed to learn Dean Winchester didn't break his promises. He silently slipped off his t-shirt and jeans, and slid under the blankets, careful not to jiggle the mattress.

Cas started to roll over and Dean stopped him with a hand on his hip. He inched closer and gingerly slipped an arm around Cas' middle, avoiding the tender skin of his mended side. "So how exactly does this work? Do I need to think happy thoughts or something?"

Cas laughed softly and laid a hand over Dean's. "No. Just being close is enough."

Dean's skin _was_ buzzing and he couldn't tell if it was simple proximity to the angel, or the pent up attraction he had been fighting since they met. He indulged himself and nosed behind Cas' ear, breathing deep before kissing him lightly on the back of his neck. "Touching isn't necessary?"

The disappointment must have been evident in his voice because Cas chuckled, rubbing his palm along Dean's forearm. "Touch is usually _very_ necessary."

Dean was mouthing the warm skin of Cas' shoulder, and it took a moment for the words to register. He lifted his head, frowning. "What do you mean, _usually?_"

Cas toyed with Dean's fingers. "I—" he stopped and tipped back his head. "Are you sure you want to hear this?"

Dean considered the sharp angle of Cas' handsome jaw, deciding a blanket _fuck it_ might well apply to this entire day. He dipped his head low to taste the dark stubble and gathered Cas closer until they were flush, knee to shoulder. "Probably not," he admitted. "But I want to know anyway."

Cas nodded thoughtfully, as though he were seriously contemplating the best way to explain it.

His expression, and the careful way he was handling this, _for Dean,_ filled Dean with warmth, and he wanted nothing more than to roll him over and wrap around him, climb inside, find that elusive core of heat he could practically _taste_ waiting for him. "You don't have to give me _all_ the gory details," he amended teasingly, heart hammering as he realized Cas might actually tell him something he would find rage-inducing. The thought of anyone touching Cas like this, holding him close, was enough to light a fire in the pit of Dean's stomach, and he tasted the foreign bitterness of jealousy on his tongue.

He was so screwed.

"Skin to skin contact is preferable, for the easiest transfer." Cas kept the brunt of the words from hitting too hard by linking their fingers together and pulling Dean's hand over his heart. "And sleep, by the human, is one of the faster methods, because they're relaxed."

Dean rested his chin on Cas shoulder, staring down at the pearly grey sheet that had bunched under them. It had twisted into a loop and a swirl like the foaming crest of a wave. He could almost hear the ocean. "Will it hurt?"

"No," Cas soothed hurriedly, squeezing Dean's fingers. He grinned slyly and dragged their hands low across his stomach, carefully avoiding the scar. "I've been told it's rather enjoyable, if one is awake." He released Dean's hand and rested his palm on the sheet. "But I would never take enough that you would notice at all, Dean. You don't need to worry."

Dean rubbed his chin across Cas' shoulder, smiling when goosebumps pebbled the skin. "What if I want to notice?" he asked gruffly.

"Then I would no longer be surprised. Not after tonight."

There was praise there, and an affectionate pride that worked its way under the gates to Dean's misgivings and filled the dips and valleys of his self worth. Dean knew the answering spark of emotion he felt in the center of his chest was a turning point, if he wanted to take it.

He pressed an answering kiss on Cas' cheek and took a deep breath. "I want to notice."


End file.
